


Leather

by Unflappable_Meerkat



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Explicit Language, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murphamy - Freeform, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 52,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9065617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unflappable_Meerkat/pseuds/Unflappable_Meerkat
Summary: He has to watch because he's doing this as much as they are. He's not stopping them.Octavia hisses at him, shoves at him, grabs handfuls of his jacket and shakes him, angrier than he's ever seen her. After a while, her voice is reduced to a pleading whisper as she tells him it's not too late. But it is too late. It's been too late for Murphy since the very moment Bellamy walked into his life.-- A look at how things might have panned out if Murphy wasn't exiled after episode 4 in season 1.The first part of this will cover the first 4 episodes, after which the story will diverge from canon slightly.--





	1. Part 1: Unremarkable

# Leather

## Part I: Follow the leader down

 

### Intro

 

John Murphy isn't a rock.

He strains to keep his stare cool and his expression unreadable but Bellamy isn't fooled.

The boy is not a rock. He is not solid, nor is he cold or hard.

Bellamy is a rock. Hard, solid, cold... and that makes him brittle because rock _breaks_.

Murphy... Murphy is a worn piece of leather. Tough but flexible. Soft and pliable.

Bellamy likes this analogy. Leather is resilient.

You can bend it...

Twist it...

Burn it...

Cut it...

It does not break.

It bruises but it does not break.

 

 

### Chapter 1: Unremarkable

 

When Bellamy first lays eyes on the boy, he dismisses him almost instantly. The boy is unremarkable. He's all pale skin, long limbs and sharp edges.

Their eyes don't meet. Not at first.

Not until he catches a glimpse of him approaching Wells Jaha at the head of a rugged troop of stick wielding teenagers. The boy's voice is almost as unremarkable as he, himself, is. It's pinched and slightly nasal, yet there is a certain richness to it that sparks Bellamy's interest. Not enough to warrant his full attention but enough for him to allow a small smile to tug at the corner of his lips as this cocky little punk advances onto a much larger, much more  _remarkable_ member of their reluctant band of outcasts.

To the kid's credit, Jaha shifts uncomfortably, curiously unsettled by this very unremarkable teenage boy.

And  _that_ secures the older Blake's full attention. 

Because Bellamy smells weakness, right there, in the broader teen and he strolls towards the scene, ready to seize the opportunity should it present itself. He raises his voice and notes with a touch of amusement how Jaha's whole posture relaxes, how the chancellor’s son turns to him, almost too quickly...

And when Mr Unremarkable's cold stare settles onto him, Bellamy _understands_.

The kid's eyes are hard... A pair of hard steel orbs peering at him from beneath hooded eyelids, cold and distant, deeply set below the boy's slightly furrowed brow. Dispassionate, distant but Oh, so very  _remarkable_ .

Their eyes meet and Bellamy feels an uncomfortable chill run down his spine as he holds that stormy gaze for an instant longer than he should, his smile stretching wider across his freckled face.

Oh yes, he can work with this.

 

\------------------------------------

 

He doesn't second guess himself when the kid abruptly snaps and shoves Jaha's shoulder with a wicked smirk before kicking the man's leg out from under him. _Friendly_ is not what he's after.

He doesn't second guess himself when the boy taunts the limping Jaha, trying to provoke him into charging so he can land a few easy blows. _Fair-play_ is not what he's after.

He doesn't second guess himself when he see the misspelt threat on the side of the Dropship. _Smarts_ is not what he's after.

An  _enforcer_ is what he's after.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

Bellamy catches sight of the boy again later that day as Jaha shoves past him, hobbling on his sprained ankle, muttering something about 'spelling' and 'geniuses', and resists the urge to point out that a genius such as himself should probably know that the correct plural for 'genius' is, in fact, not 'geniuses'.

He does, however, note with no small amount of satisfaction that the chancellor’s son is still shifting uncomfortably, doing everything in his power to avoid holding the boy's pale, unsettling stare. Bellamy wipes another smile off his face and puffs his chest out a little as he approaches the kid and his guarded companion. He looks impossibly pale standing next to the darker teen that seems permanently attached to his hip.

'If you're going to kill someone it's probably best not to announce it.'

The boy scoffs and meets his eyes unwaveringly, a humourless smile splitting that narrow face like a knife as he scrutinises Bellamy with an intensity that throws the older man off guard for a second.  _Ballsy little shit_.

The exchange that follows is surprisingly one sided, save for a few interruptions from Mr Unremarkable's increasingly hostile sidekick. The pasty boy is suddenly quiet, attentive. Bellamy knows he's got him right there so he points to the bracelet on his narrow wrist with a confident smile.

'Take them off. The ark will think we're dead, that it's not safe to follow.'

Bellamy marks a pause for emphasis and boldly meets the kid's eerie eyes as he goes in for the kill...

'You follow...?'

Pale orbs drift down to his lips for a fluttering second and Bellamy knows he will. Until the very end.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: end of chapter one! Haven't written anything in a very long time so I'm feeling a bit rusty and words are not coming as easily in English as they used to but I really enjoyed diving into this. I'm hoping to cover everything up to the end of 'Murphy's law' in Part one: Follow the leader down, at which point the story will diverge from canon so we can explore what I think could have happened if Murphy hadn't been exiled.
> 
> I've pretty much got the first 3 chapters written but I'm still polishing 2 and 3 so they'll only be up in the next few days.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this. Give me a shout. Send me a prompt – I'm happy to look at anything Murphamy :D


	2. Part 1: A Human Lightning Rod

# Leather

## Part I : Follow the leader down

 

_I am waiting, on a mountaintop, for the moment that the sky will strike._

_Locked up forever inside, I look to the stars and ask 'why?', Oh If they could just teach my dark heart to feel._ ~Lightning Rod – The Offsprings

 

### Chapter 2: Human lightning rod

 

The first thing Octavia notices about him is how terribly  _contained_ he is.

And having spent the vast majority of her short life confined below floor boards, she finds offence in how gingerly he treads around, in how  _placid_ he looks. In how very much like himself, like the sullen boy she remembers from the Skybox, he acts.

She marvels at a world of green leaves, greener than the greenest crayon Bellamy ever stole for her, of blue skies and butterflies and her heart all but explodes as a myriad of possibilities swirl around her brain. And Murphy... Murphy couldn't look more unimpressed if he tried.

And that offends her.

'Why you need to drag fish-eyes along everywhere you go, I don't know.' she spits at Bellamy as he plops himself down onto a log across from her at the fire, making sure the sickly looking brat hears her as he sits himself cross legged next to the her brother, on the ground.

His dull, dead stare lands on her like a cold tentacle and her skins crawls a bit. He smiles at her but no emotion comes with it. It's just a stretch of the lips, a parody of sentiment, and she wonders (for the third time that day) what frozen nightmare this hell spawn of a man could have possibly crawled out of - because, no, Murphy couldn't possibly have been given  _birth_ to _,_ no, something as cold as that could have only crawled out of some moist pit in the ground _..._

...or maybe it was mitosis.

Murphy chuckles under his breath and wipes his sleeve across his nose, hiding a smile, and for a second she fears that, in addition to being the motherless spawn of some deep-sea creature, he's also a mind reader. But then she realises the boy is just chuckling at something Bellamy said.

For the first time since the landing, she sees something in these cold, dead eyes, as he looks at her brother. She tells herself it's just the fire dancing on his face, bringing life to emotionless features, but for a fluttering moment, the boy looks... so very alive and vibrant.

And when Bellamy turns to smile down at him warmly, the kind of smile he usually reserves for her, she instinctively leans back because in that very moment, the boy looks so laden with emotion she thinks he might actually just burst. They flash rapidly across his face, wave after wave – admiration, envy, joy, hope, frustration, fear, doubt. It all comes crashing onto him and she can't help looking, really  _looking_ at him and how colourful he suddenly looks sitting by her brother.

But Bellamy's attention drifts away and with it, whatever warmth she saw on the boy's face vanishes.

As if sensing her gaze on him, Murphy shoots her a quick glance over the fire and rubs his nose with his wrist again, this time wiping all trace of the smile off his face.

So maybe fish-eyes isn't completely dead inside after all. Maybe she sees a bit of what Bellamy sees in him.

 

\-----------------------

 

Except Bellamy doesn't really  _see_ anything in Murphy. Or so he would tell anyone... including himself.

He's a deflector, a lightning rod the older man keeps around to divert all the resentment, all the aggression the other delinquents might have directed at him.

Bellamy rules with an iron fist, makes the costly mistakes, takes the arbitrary decisions. He throws the most punches and looks out for no one but himself and O but it's Murphy they hate. And Bellamy gladly lets them... 

Because Bellamy has a plan, he muses, watching the boy land a first punch onto Wells Jaha; a plan that doesn't necessarily involve Murphy – although a small, quiet voice in his mind reminds him that he would very much prefer the boy to be part of that plan – a plan that sees him and his sister living a long, happy life on earth. Everything else, everyone else, is  _expendable_ .

He watches the pale kid tackle the much larger Wells – and boy, can that little shit  _tackle_ – with a smug smile on his face, something stirring deep inside of him as he watches a bruised, battered and disheveled Murphy pull a hastily crafted knife from his belt as he drags himself back up, not even bothering to wipe the blood that is now matting some of his soft brown hair, pooling onto his brow and slowly dripping into his scorching blue eyes.

Bellamy knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the brat is fighting for him. That every blow he takes, he takes for him. That every bone he breaks, he breaks for him.

Murphy's no fool, Bellamy reminds himself. The kid knows the crowd will turn, knows every move he makes, every harsh word, is bringing him closer to the edge. And he doesn't care. When the time comes, Murphy will soak it all in, all the hate, all the anger. Gladly. Because that's what Bellamy  _needs_ him for.

They will despise him, they will loathe him. And he will let them, because that's what he's good at.

'This is not going to end well.' Mbege tells his friend later, as he pours some water onto a piece of cloth and hands it to him to clean out the angry gash on his cheek.

'Hopefully it doesn't end at all.' Murphy responds with a cocky smirk after a while, getting up and throwing the cloth in the fire, watching the fabric catch alight with a hiss.

He doesn't hear Mbege, or maybe he just ignores him, as he strolls towards where Bellamy is looming over an injured Octavia by the Dropship.

'Blake's going to be the end of you, man.'

 

\-----------------------

 

Octavia shares that feeling but unlike Mbege - quiet Mbege - she voices it loud and clear, for Bellamy and whoever else is standing within earshot to hear.

'You can't just use people like that, Bell!'

She doesn't know when she started giving a rat's ass. Hell, Murphy infuriates her at the best of time, but she finds herself defending the kid. Because somebody needs to, perhaps... Maybe it started just a few moments back, as she watched her brother – her  _loving_ ,  _gallant_ big brother – shove a knife at Wells Jaha's feet so he could fight the seething boy. 

Instead of  _stopping_ them. Instead of  _reasoning_ with them. 

He had to know... one of them could  _die_ .  _Murphy_ could die. He had to  _care_ . Because that's the brother she knew, the brother she loved. The one that always cared. About everything.

Heaven knows she would much rather be worrying about Jasper right now. Poor Jasper who just got snagged away by the grounders before her very eyes.

...after saving her life.

But she'll be damned if she has to watch Bellamy fuel the raging fire that he somehow managed to twist and shape John Murphy into one more time. She distinctly remembers how sick she felt at the sight of Bellamy –  _her_ Bellamy – drinking in the pure,  _chaotic_ , hatred that twisted Murphy's features into a wicked sneer, with a smile on his freckled face. 

Smug.  _Proud_ . 

Or was it the reckless abandon with which Murphy threw himself at Wells that sickened her most? He had to know... had to feel that the rage was consuming him, clouding his judgement, dulling his senses. That Wells was not only much bigger but also much fitter and stronger than he was. And he looked so small, so oddly fragile and  _small,_ with his messy brown hair falling into his face and blood marring his cheeks _,_ that she found herself hating this Bellamy, the Bellamy that would so carelessly throw this life away. For what... to prove a point? To assert his authority, to secure his leadership?

Part of her knows its less about Murphy and more about the person she's afraid Bellamy is turning into but she can't admit that. Not to him, not to anyone.

So when Bellamy just stands there, looking at her like she's just a child throwing a tantrum, it makes her so  _deeply_ angry that she could lash out at him. Physically.

But as always, Murphy just laughs it off, sucking the attention away from the older Blake – and wipes his fucking nose  _again,_ the way he  _always_ does when he's deflecting, she quickly learnt – and  _him_ , she does punch. 

He takes it silently, barely swaying on his feet as he stands there, stunned for a moment. When he recovers, he brings a hand up to his face and touches his bleeding lip with the tip of a dirty finger before letting his eyes drift over to Bellamy. And it nauseates her to see her brother shrugging him off, tilting his head towards the camp, clearly instructing him to go.

'I'll see you now, Murph.'

Octavia fumes silently as she watches the boy smile at him – cross that –  _beam_ at him, shoving bloody hands into his pockets as he walks off towards the Dropship. 

'Bellamy...' she hisses, taking a step towards her brother.

'Don't worry, I'm sure he barely felt that after the beating he took from Wells.' Bellamy laughs carelessly, something close to fondness in his voice.

She's about to say something. Something she'll regret. So she just shakes her head and limps off, wincing.

She has Jasper to worry about.

 

\----------------------------

 

And she doesn't understand, Bellamy knows. She can't begin to comprehend it but part of him clearly does cares about the kid, he won't even try to deny that any more. That boy who spends virtually every minute of every day trailing behind him like a second shadow. That boy who beams at him earnestly - bloody and battered and broken and torn - as Bellamy all but throws him into the fire.

She doesn't understand that he does, in fact, _care_ but that there is nothing he will not do, no one he won't readily sacrifice to ensure that she gets to live the life she deserves...

Or so he likes to tell himself.

'Murphy.' he calls out, when Clarke puts him on the spot and he reluctantly resigns himself to following her on the rescue mission.'You're coming with me.'

The boy just nods, never questioning him. He just follows him with a grunt and Bellamy winces slightly.

Murphy's bruised and gaunt, the wounds on his face and hands still seeping blood, but he follows dutifully. And Bellamy feels something in the pit of his stomach stir – relief, gratitude, shame? - because he knows the boy will walk into a fire for him, no questions asked.

And for the first time since he first laid eyes on the sullen teen, he doesn't really know how he feels about that.

 

\------------------------

 

They bring Jasper back. And they patch him up as best as they can but he just won't shut up and it's slowly driving Murphy insane.

The pitiful groans strike too close to home, remind him to much of the way his mother...

He shakes his head violently to kill that train of thought (because it never leads to anything good) and wipes his nose into his sleeve nervously one more time, blinking rapidly to dissipate the sea of white stars that's clouding his vision. So maybe he took one too many punches, banged his head one too many times.

You'd think he'd be used to it after years in the Skybox and another few years of dealing with his mother...

He shakes his head again as he sits down on a log and the muscles in his legs protest violently, still painfully tight from all the walking. His cold hand snakes under the hem of a dirty shirt to poke at the angry purple bruise he knows is covering a possibly cracked rib and a bolt of pain shoots through his side just as he catches a glimpse of curly black hair from the corner of his eye.

A frown on his face, the boy grabs his hair in his hands and tugs, wrinkling his nose as his fingers ding into rough, blood-matted locks. It's getting dirty. His mother... she always hated how quickly his hair got dirty.  _Or maybe she just hated you..._

He scoffs derisively and pulls out his knife to cut a loose string from the seam of his cargo pants.

Octavia finds him absently digging through the soil between his feet with the knife. The night is dark and he's sitting too far away from the fire for her to see his face clearly but she doesn't need eyes to know that he's scowling. She looks around Murphy and Bellamy is nowhere in sight, which is a rare feat. So she walks over and crouches a few meters from him. The boy remains silent and his eyes never shift from the moist brown earth at his feet but he gives a slight nod to acknowledge her presence and she relaxes slightly.

This Murphy's more like the Murphy she remembers from the Skybox. Number 285. Always sat by the back of the canteen with John number 2 – she always forgets his name - and Nate Miller. Only opened his mouth when he had something nasty or sarcastic to say.

They sit in silence for a while longer until Jasper lets out another moan and she watches Murphy's whole body recoil from the sound.

'He's in a lot of pain.' she defends him.

'Who isn't?' He looks broken, more so than usual, and she wonders if the events of the past few days are finally catching up or...

'Where's Bellamy?'

'Off with some girl. Roma, I think.' Murphy laughs grimly, not even trying to conceal the bitterness in his voice.

Oh...

And it hits her now. The way Murphy looks,  _really_ looks, at Bellamy. The way he follows around like a faithful hound. The way he basks in her brother's attention, glows under his gaze and the way Bellamy lavishes the attention onto him, carelessly, fuels the fire with a few pats on the back here, a few lingering looks there.

Bellamy knows, she realises with a grimace. He  _knows_ and he's just stringing Murphy along, using him to shield himself from the rest of the delinquents because Murphy is so willing and...

She feels sick. She gets up and she leaves. She hears him laugh derisively behind her and that's got to be the most broken sound she's ever heard.

 

\---------------------

 

Bellamy jumps as she storms into his tent like a hurricane and plants herself in front of him with her fists on her narrow hips. He can't help but marvel at how confident, how  _strong_ she looks on Earth. The little banshee's lips are tight as she glowers at the woman next to him on the makeshift bed – Roma, he remembers vaguely – with a grimace narrowing her already pointed features, green eyes burning so fiercely he finds himself flinching away.

To his surprise she doesn't say anything. She opens her mouth a few times but no words come out. She doesn't know where to start, he realises with a start. He watches her shift uncomfortably from one foot to the next, anger slowly melting from her face and what replaces it is something Bellamy hoped he would never find there...

Disappointment...?

He pushes Roma off his lap absently, ignoring how Octavia quickly looks away, anger flaring on her face again briefly, and distances himself from the blond, worry edged into his features.

'Roma, leave us.' he drawls, snatching his shirt from the floor of the tent and pulling it over his head in one swift motion. He pays no attention as the other woman departs. Pays no attention as she pauses at the flap of the tent to blow him a kiss.

'Spill it out.' he demands with a casual wave of his hand when he is sure that Roma is out of the tent and out of earshot.

The silence hovers between them. Thick, awkward. Loaded with tension. She opens her mouth again. Once. Twice. Then shakes her head. He sits up straighter on the mess of blankets and jackets that serves as his bed and pats the most cushioned part with his hand but she shakes her head.

'I don't like what Earth is doing to you.' she admits after the long pause, her eyes narrowed as she finally looks at him. 'I'm afraid I don't like what you're turning into.'

Her tone is clipped but her voice has lost some of its bite and, to his dismay, she sounds more sad than angry.

'Is this about Murphy?' Bellamy chuckles, trying to defuse the situation. 'If you like him...'

'He's my age, you know.' she remarks, out of the blue.

It's not as if Bellamy hasn't given that a thought. The kid is a bit rough around the edges and acts about three times as big as he really is but Bellamy sees the softness on his face when he thinks no one is watching, when that trademark smirk isn't stretching his lips thin, when his eyes are not gleaming with the scorching rage Bellamy has been cultivating in him. When Murphy smiles up at him at the fire-pit and the boy's pale blue eyes linger a moment too long on his lips.

He  _knows_ Murphy is no older than his little sister is. His tiny _, delicate_ little sister. But hearing her  _say_ it... actually hearing the words makes something in his chest twist painfully.

'He's my age...' she repeats, more slowly. 'He's my age and you treat  _me_ like a porcelain doll... but him...'

She doesn't need to finish that sentence.

He treats her like a porcelain doll but Murphy... he hurts. Him, he uses as a shield. As a deterrent.

'He's tougher than he looks.' is all he finds to say.

'He  _trusts_ you, Bellamy...' she pleads. 

And that inflames him. He pushes himself off the ground, suddenly, towering above her, his face twisted in something she can't quite place, his shoulders tight, his hands balled into fists, his jaw clenched and trembling. He stares her down, forgetting that she is who she is and that she won't back down. He wants to tell her he's doing this for her, doing this for them. That he needs...that  _they_ need Murphy to stand between them and the rest of the world, to soak up the hate and the anger and the pain before it reaches them because they've already been through more than any children should... 

But as he looks at her, standing there with her shoulders squared, her chin jutting out defiantly, poised for a fight, he suddenly knows. He knows with certitude that she can handle whatever this world has to throw at her.

And maybe, just maybe, he's the only one that needs a lightning rod.

 

\--------------------------------

 

Later that night, when the fire is dying out and the excited chatter of teenagers has subsided into low hum, he slips into the Dropship.

_To check on her_ , he tells himself. 

But he takes a left where he should take a right and soon, he's standing in the furthest wing of the aircraft, watching the cold moonlight cast soft shadows on a bruised, battered face. Watching the slow rise and fall of the kid's chest as he lays there, on the tattered hammock he claimed for himself, dead to the world and yet, Oh, so very alive looking in that moment that Bellamy can't help smiling down at him warmly as he catches a glimpse of his own darker hand against the soft, pale skin of the boy's cheek.

Breath catching in his chest, he drags a calloused thumb down to the corner of the boy's lips and tugs it up, gently. Just to see that soft smile on his face again.

 

\---------------------------------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one went a bit more smoothly. I like writing from Octavia's POV, she's so vibrant and genuine. I like the way she wears every emotion on her sleeve. It contrasts with pretty much everyone else on the show.  
> Bellamy is a bit harder, especially early season 1 Bellamy, but I think I managed not to completely de-humanise him.


	3. Part 1: Swallow your pride and drown

# Leather

 

## Follow the leader down.

 

### Chapter 3: Swallow your pride and drown

 

'You're not going.'

The words hit him like a slap in the face, tying a cold knot into his gut. Bellamy goes on to explain that he needs him here, that he can't leave the camp unprotected but Murphy takes it for what it is.

Bellamy doesn't want him there.

His mind skims over the events of that morning erratically, scouring for a reason behind the other's sudden change of heart. Bellamy always brings him – _strings_ him – along. He never leaves him behind at camp. So he revisits the past few hours, frantically.

_Can't be because I can't throw a knife. Atom can't throw a knife. Can't be me teasing Atom... maybe..._

Was it the Pound Town comment? Bellamy's never minded him running his mouth – his _big_ mouth – before.

The curly haired man raises an eyebrow at him, visibly waiting for his response and Murphy nods, numbly. He drops his gaze to the ground and forces a tight smile.

'Fine.' his tone is clipped but he doesn't care to hide it. Bellamy is already walking away.

And goggles –  _Jasper,_ Mbege reminded him that very morning – Jasper is groaning and he can't hear himself thinking so he grits his teeth as he watches Bellamy's retreating form.

He throws again. Misses again. Jasper groans again and Murphy's eye twitches violently.

_You're not going..._

 

\--------------------------------

 

Murphy's upset...

He listens diligently as Bellamy reminds him that he should keep people focused on the little daily tasks while they are gone but the older man can see the unusual tightness in his shoulders as they crouch in his tent but he tries to ignore the way the boys stare seems to linger on anything but him, refusing to meet his eyes.

'Murph, you listening?' he waves his hand in front of the kid's face to force him to look up.

'Yeah, keep an eye on Octavia.' Murphy mumbles, clearly guessing. 'I heard you the first hundred times.'

'That's not what I was saying.' Bellamy frowns. 'Murphy, I need you focused...'

The boy looks up at that, finally snapping out of whatever trance he'd been in; he shakes his head a bit, as if to clear his thoughts and Bellamy finds himself smiling down at him fondly, all trace of annoyance banished from his thoughts as he takes in the boy's crumpled shirt and messy head of hair. Without thinking, the elder Blake reaches over to snatch a twig from one of the kid's soft locks, close to his ear, calloused fingers grazing against the exposed skin lightly.

'You sleep in a bush or something?' he mocks in a low chuckle, chest swelling as he lets his hand drop down to the boy's shoulder to give it a firm squeeze and feels his whole posture loosen up at the simple touch.

'We need some people to scavenge some more scraps from whatever part of the Dropship we're not using. Can you keep an eye on that?' he repeats, hand still firmly planted on the kid's shoulder.

'Yeah.' Murphy responds dejectedly before adding, in a quiet voice, 'Can't I just come with you?'

'We need the scraps to make weapons...' Bellamy ignores him and continues but before he can finish, the sound of angry stomping reaches them from outside the tent and a very irritated looking Octavia barges in.

Bellamy uses his grip on Murphy's shoulder to push him back, with a bit more force than strictly necessary, and pulls his hand back as if he'd just touched a hot coal, cautiously avoiding the beaten puppy look he knows he'll find on the boy's face if he dares to looks.

'What did you do to Atom?' Octavia snaps but Murphy's already stopped paying attention again, barely registering when Bellamy shrugs and waves him off with a nod.

He removes himself from their sight without a word, his face warm and his shoulder still burning where Bellamy gripped it.

 

\--------------------------------

 

_Power hungry, self-serving jackass. Doesn't care about anyone but himself._

The words are still ringing in her ears as she leaves the Dropship to catch her breath. She wishes she had the heart to correct Monty but she can't bring herself to. Because she knows Bellamy – this new Bellamy – is all that. All the confirmation she needs comes in the form of Murphy's dejected face as she catches a glimpse of him straining under the heavy pile of scraps he picked up from the back of the Dropship.

She marches onto him, almost surprised when he meets her eyes and she sees a flash of anticipation there before he schools himself and his sharp features return to the usual stoic stare. Her eyes drop down to his lower lip briefly and she suddenly remembers their last interaction ended with her fist in his face.

'Let me grab some of that.' she says quickly, too quickly, as she relieves him of some of the metal scraps he gathered, not waiting for his consent.

He doesn't protest, just rolls his eyes at her and continues walking towards the fire. When his hands are free, she reaches out and snatches his wrist to inspect the metal shavings embedded into his palms before flipping them around.

'Your wounds are getting infected.' she scolds, rubbing a thumb over the purple bruise that spreads over the back of his right hand.

'And I'm sure your shit sparkles with glitter and smells like candy floss.' he sniggers. 'But we can't all be perfect.'

He tugs and tries to pull his hand back but she tightens her grip around his wrist, bringing it up to her face so she can examine it closer and scrunching her nose at the angry red blotches of exposed flesh on his knuckles where the skin split during his fight with Wells.

'Shouldn't you be inside, tending to your knight in shining armour.' he spits venomously, wiping his nose with his other wrist.

'Shouldn't you be prancing along behind my brother somewhere in the forest?' she bites back and almost regrets it when she catches a glimpse of the pained look that twists his features. But the moment is short lived and almost as quickly as the emotion came over him, it's gets wiped off into a sleeve, only to be replaced by the usual mock boredom.

'Get your skinny ass in the Dropship. We can clean the wounds with water and use some that foul smelling poultice Monty made.' she scowls, dropping his slack hand and turning her back on him on her way inside, smirking to herself slightly as she hears the slow dragging of feet behind her.

 

\----------------------------------

 

Octavia scrubs at the wounds on his knuckles with a bit more vigour than she probably should and pours some more water onto his hands. Murphy watches her silently as she does, wincing once in a while as the rough fabric peels away the grime from his skin, exposing the tender, naked flesh underneath.

When she's satisfied with her handy work, she hands him a clean cloth and a small amount of poultice cradled into a large green leaf, waving him off with a curt nod as she turns back to goggles.

Murphy doesn't take offence at the abrupt way she distances herself from him – she showed him more kindness than her brother would have... than her brother had. He doesn't drift too far, sits himself down a few meters further and starts applying the vile looking paste onto the raw flesh of his knuckles generously.

And that's where they are when the fog hits, panicked shouts reaching them from the camp outside, distressed teens pouring into their tin-can shelter as someone, some girl he's never noticed until now and probably won't notice again, explains that the air is burning everyone's skin out there.

His gaze drifts up from the empty leaf in his hand and he catches Octavia's eyes as they both share the same, unnerving thought.

'Monty, my brother's out there.'

 

\------------------------

 

It takes less than a half minute for Murphy to snap.

Octavia reaches for him as he jumps to his feet and although he struggles to free himself, she holds on fast.

'If you open that hatch, we will all die.'

The boy wipes his nose with his sleeve, eyes frantically drifting from left to right and she can't tell if he's looking for a blunt object to bash her skull in with or trying to figure out if he can dig a hole through the side of the Dropship with his knife but she holds onto his wrist with both hands.

'He's not supposed to get hurt. That's my fucking job.' Murphy hisses into her face, so close she can feel his warm breath onto her skin as stormy blue eyes cleave into her soul like daggers and she's angry, so angry she wants to gouge them out with her nails but all she has are words so she spits back at him furiously.

'Yes! Yes it is! But you're in here and he's out there because you couldn't even do that right.' The pale blue eyes widen, emotion draining from the boy's pale face but she presses on. 'So sit your ass down and keep your fucking trap shut because the last thing we need is for you to cause a panic.'

And with that she finally lets go of his hand and turns away, still fuming.

But when the air clears and the heat leaves her face, she spares a glance towards him again and bites her lip viciously as she meets his cloudy eyes. Because maybe it's a trick of the light shining through the window in the roof of the Dropship above their heads but in that instant, she could swear she saw wetness in these shiny blue orbs.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

'Murphy's gonna kill Jasper!'

Octavia's eyes snap up from the dying youth's distressed face to see Monty scampering up the ladder, panic clear in his eyes.

_No he's not..._ she wants to tell him but she hears the angry footsteps on the ladder below him and her stomach drops. Can she really take a chance?

Before she knows what she's doing her boot lands in Murphy's face as she tries to push him back down the ladder and out of the upper deck. Monty manages to force the trap shut but Murphy's angry shouts are still echoing through the room as she searches their shelter frantically for something to lock the trap shut as the boy below rams into the metal door, pushing Monty's whole body up where he is sitting on it as he tries to force his way in.

Would he really do it? Maybe they'd pushed too far, maybe the kid was finally snapping. Thinking Bellamy's dead out there.

The cloud of panic finally lifts as her hands tighten around a large metallic bar and she manages to get it loose.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

The next time he sees her, Octavia is shouldering past him on her way back to the Dropship after Bellamy and the others return with Atom's corpse. She doesn't look his way but he knows this time she's the one with tears in her eyes and he can't bring himself to rejoice at the sight. So he just walks over to Bellamy – a very safe, very alive Bellamy – fists in his pockets to hide his trembling hands, chewing his lip nervously.

'Did we lose anyone here?'

Murphy recoils a bit at that. Bellamy's not glad he's OK, he's not relieved to see him. He won't even look at him. He's all business and that sends a cold chill through Murphy's veins. Would he even give a shit if it was someone else standing in front of him, telling him that, yes they'd lost someone?

_'You might remember him. Sickly face and large, wide set eyes, greasy hair. Follows you around everywhere like a lost puppy.'_

The man would probably just shrug.

'Jasper?' Bellamy asks,finally meeting his eyes.

Oh, so the prince  _does_ care... just not about him. He wants to know if fucking  _Jasper_ is OK. Murphy feels his temper flaring, feels the familiar cold fingertips of anger dancing in his gut. He grits his teeth and turns away, breaking eye contact before he does something reckless.

'Still breathing, barely. I tried to take him out but your _psycho_ little sister...'

It doesn't surprise him, not really, when Bellamy grabs him by the collar roughly, fire in his eyes. That's what he was looking for, had to be. Why else would he be running his mouth about their fearless leader's adorable little sister? And yet, part of him shrivels up and dies a bit when cold, angry eyes meet his; when the hand balled into his jacket – the same hand that was squeezing his shoulder affectionately that very morning – tightens and lifts to tug him up onto his toes.

'My what? My  _what_ ?'

He stands there, drinking in the sight for a moment too long, wishing someone would defend him with such vigour, such fierce loyalty. Had anyone, ever? Murphy thinks of his dad, of the last time he saw him.

He feels cold sweat dripping down his spine, pooling at the small of his back; feels the familiar tug of despair – of guilt – of emptiness. And suddenly he needs out, he needs to be away from here, away from the consuming anger that distort Bellamy's handsome features. He needs to retreat into the shadows where he can hide and lick his wounds... where he can spend the next six months berating himself for setting his expectations too high once more.

_Did you really think anyone would care?_

'Your little sister.' he finally responds, mentally patting himself on the back for not grovelling at the older man's feet. He grabs Bellamy's wrists roughly and pries his hands away from the collar of his jacket, watching the flash of surprise that briefly eclipses the anger from that tan, freckled face.

'Yeah that's right, my little sister. Got anything else you want to say about her?'

And it's tempting - so very tempting - because right now, Murphy would much rather take a punch to the face than have to stand there under Bellamy's spiteful glare. He briefly contemplates telling the older Blake his adorable little sister would probably be sweating her sexy little ass off down in pound town right now had her chivalrous big brother done his goddamn job and brought her boyfriend back alive...

'Nothing. Sorry.' he says instead.

The disappointment that briefly flashes across Bellamy's features as the words leave his mouth should probably pain him more than it does and Murphy almost wishes Bellamy would just ball his fucking fist and punch him anyway. The pain finally comes when the older man gives him one last disgusted look before turning his back on him to tell Mbege and the others to go bury Atom's body.

Murphy hears a dull, hissing sound and a soft thud and the next thing he sees is his knife embedded into the nearest tree, his hand still throbbing from clenching broken knuckles around the cold metal handle too tight.

He's not even sure when the knife came out...

 

\-----------------------------------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter until the end of part 1. I'm actually pretty excited about part 2. Canon divergence will give me a bit more freedom but I've decided to only change what's strictly necessary and to make every effort to keep Murphy's storyline relatively close to canon.  
> Thank for all the hits and the Kudos :D


	4. Part 1: What the people want

# Leather

## Follow the leader down.

 

 

### Chapter 4: What the people want

 

Things are strained between them after that. Murphy doesn't respond to Bellamy's praises the way he used to, doesn't drink in his every word, doesn't hover around him unless the older man orders him to stick around. Bellamy has nothing to reprimand him about because the boy does the work, he goes through the motions; yet he finds himself missing the lingering looks, the fragile complicity that had been blooming between them.

He makes the first move, tries to reach out. Goes out of his way to compliment the younger man when he sees how far the wall has come but something's missing from Murphy's eyes as Bellamy reaches out and wraps an arm around his shoulders lazily, hoping proximity and contact might cut through the thick tension between them. Murphy tenses and the arm that might have otherwise reciprocated the brief embrace by snaking around the older man's waist remains firmly planted at his side. To add insult to injury, the boy shrugs his arm off after a while to wipe his nose into his sleeve and though Bellamy is usually quite partial to the nervous tick, he finds himself balling his fist, barely resisting the urge to deck the kid right where he stands. To get a reaction - any reaction - out of him.

But Murphy just stares into the distance and Bellamy backs off.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

So when Clarke summons him into the improvised medical tent and he finds her staring down at Murphy's knife next to a pair of severed fingers on the table in front of her, a part of him refuses to jump to conclusions but he's a lot less surprised than he should be. Octavia is bent over the table, staring at the fingers, straining to maintain the illusion that she doesn't know any more than they do who the knife belongs to, and Bellamy feels a brief wave of gratitude towards his sister.

'Who else have you told about this?' he asks, his thoughts rushing to damage control. He must keep this under control, keep this from escalating. He knows where things are going from here but he's not quite ready for that. Not yet.

'No one, we brought it straight here.' Octavia reassures him, meeting his eyes for a second as Clarke picks up the knife.

'It means the grounders didn't kill Wells.' the blond interjects. 'It was one of us.'

Bellamy fumes silently, his jaw clenching and his gaze shifting to Octavia again. Clarke caught on too quick, he needs more time to defuse this. Needs more time to--

_To what?_ He muses to himself. To whisk Murphy away and hide him in a cave somewhere while he finds a way to pin Wells' murder on someone else? How would that play out for either one of them? How would that benefit him or Octavia...? 

_Did Murphy kill Wells...?_ They talked about this, the kid's smarter than that; yet, Bellamy finds himself contemplating the way Murphy's been acting since their altercation at the fire. The boy has been distant, guarded, secretive, only meeting the older man's eyes when he found no other recourse. 

'There's more than one murderer in this camp. This isn't news, we need to keep this quiet.' he urges, planting his hands on his hips to regain some composure. He tries to distract Clarke, tries to steal her attention away from the knife before she  _sees_ something she shouldn't see but she's already making for the exit and Bellamy knows it's too late; knows she's ready to set everything into motion... he makes a vain attempt to stop her, to reason with her, his voice more anxious, more pleading than he would like to hear it.

'You've got to be smart about this. Look at all we've achieved. The patrols, the wall. Like it or not, thinking the Grounders killed Wells is good for us.' he makes a compelling argument, he knows, but she won't budge. Because Wells was her friend. Because she's stubborn and self-righteous, itching to go on a crusade against all that is Evil in this world, but he has to try to delay her anyway. 'Besides, what're you gonna do? Walk out there and ask the killer to step forward? You don't even know whose knife that is.'

'Oh really?' she mutters, darkly, and flips the knife to show him the inside of the handle.

Bellamy doesn't need to look. He's the one who put the letters there.

The older man lets his thoughts wander for a short instant, back to the night when he took the knife from the boy and engraved his initials into the the handle. Bellamy didn't think much of it at the time. Mbege had hinted that it was Murphy's birthday and Bellamy couldn't really think of a gift so he'd offered to engrave the knife for him. He remembers how he'd been expecting the boy to put up a fight when he took the blade from his hands and how Murphy had just looked at him with that uncertain look on his face, as if he'd almost expected Bellamy to turn his own knife on him and stab him in the face.

He also distinctly remembers how relieved the kid looked as he grabbed the knife back from the older man's outstretched hand when Bellamy was down etching the letters. He looked so happy, so grateful, like no one had ever done anything for him before. The kid spent the whole evening toying with the blade absently by his side that night, oblivious to the excited chatter of teenagers around them, paying attention to no one but Bellamy Blake.

'J.M. John Murphy.' Clarke all but spits out at him, exceeded. 'The people have a right to know.'

Bellamy briefly contemplate arguing that he can think of at least one other kid out there that shares the initials but resigns himself when he realises that no one would buy into the idea of taciturn, soft spoken John Mbege, planting a knife into Wells Jaha's neck out of the blue.

Clarke's mind automatically jumped to Murphy, Bellamy notes, powerless; because everything is going according to plan, everyone  _hates_ Murphy, which is exactly what Bellamy had in mind when he started stringing the boy along. 

Except Bellamy's not sure he really likes that plan anymore.

 

\-----------------------------

 

Octavia rushes to her brother's side after he storms out of the tent to follow in Clarke's wake. She wasn't any more surprised than her brother was when Clarke 'revealed' the identity of her prime suspect but she had expected Bellamy to put up more of a fight. Hell, she'd half expected Bellamy to grab the knife and walk Clarke out into the woods for a summary execution.... and he might just have if Jasper hadn't been there. If _she_ hadn't been there.

But they  _had_ been there and she watched helplessly as her brother struggled to stay on top of the situation, failing spectacularly. She didn't know what to think. Or rather, she knew what to think but did not like that train of thought one bit. 

Murphy had hated Wells Jaha, fiercely, he'd never bothered to conceal that fact; even back in the Skybox, for the few days that Jaha had been stuck in there with them before they got sent to the ground, Murphy had always made it a point to torment the boy whatever chance he got.

But so had pretty much everyone else.

Yet, Murphy made a compelling scapegoat. He was easy to hate. Octavia's eyes turned cold as she watched the pale boy slap another kid wrist, making the water canteen he was carrying drop out of his hands, its contents spilling onto the ground at their feet.

'No more water until this section of the wall's up!' he shouts.

And then there was the attempt on Jasper's life... the younger Blake winces as she lets her mind wander back to that afternoon in the Dropship.

'You son of bitch!'

Octavia can't bring herself to object to Clarke's words. Murphy isn't her  _friend_ , not by a long shot, but he is part of their crew and Bellamy clearly cares about the kid. She should be taking his side but she can't bring herself to because Murphy is Murphy and there's this little voice at the back of her head that reminds her that its should have been him, that Bellamy should have brought  _him_ along on that hunting trip. That if he had been there, Atom might still be alive.

'Wow, what's your problem.' Murphy sniggers, opening his arms wide as the blond all but rams into him, knife waving in his face.

'Recognise this?'

And Octavia watches him, closely. Of course he recognises the knife, it's his. She's watched him play around with it enough times to know that. But other than recognition, she sees nothing in his features that betrays any anxiety. Shouldn't he be nervous, at the very least, being confronted with the very weapon he used to murder one of their fellow survivors in cold blood?

'Something's not right.' she whispers to Bellamy.

'It's too late now.' Bellamy mutters back cryptically.

Shocked, she looks at him and sees how eerily calm and composed her brother suddenly is. Bellamy should be intervening, he should be jumping in. Instead he just stands there with his arms crossed on his chest, like he's just made the most difficult decision in his life, and although she's close enough to see his knuckles turning white from how hard he is clenching his fists, he doesn't bat an eyelash as Clarke presses the assault.

'Where you dropped it after you killed Wells.'

'After I what?' Murphy snaps, looking every bit as stunned as Jasper did when he fell and found the knife. 'The Grounders killed Wells, not me.'

That's not the expression you'd expect from a murder, Murphy looks genuinely surprised but Octavia's mind is still reeling from the boy' attempt on Jasper's life and the crippling evidence they'd stumbled upon.

'Bellamy, you really believe this crap?' Murphy calls out to her older brother suddenly and she can feel the crowd shifting around them, she can feel the apprehension, she can almost touch the tension thickening the air as Bellamy fails to respond to the boy's appeal.

She listens to Clarke's passionate argument, listens to the blonds as she drills him on the spot and Octavia can't help but let herself be compelled by it; she gets sucked in and before she knows, she's speaking up, not to defend her brother's friend but to fuel into the fire. Because Murphy is an  _asshole_ and Atom should not be  _dead_ ...

'And he tried to kill Jasper too!'

She can almost hear Bellamy's teeth gritting at that and his hands are clenched so tight into his sides that she fears the skin might actually split at his knuckles. Still, he does nothing. She looks on as Murphy's eyes now drift away from Clarke, as he becomes aware of the tension around them. Although he strains to maintain a nonchalant attitude as he takes a few steps away from the blond, she can hear the edge of anxiety in his voice as he reminds them that he doesn't have to answer to anyone.

'Come again?'

Octavia almost turns to her brother right then as she sees more delinquents pouring down from the edges of camp towards where they are standing, as if beckoned by the very sound of his voice. She contemplates going back on her word, contemplates prompting Bellamy to reconsider the whole situation. She almost –  _almost_ – tells him that this going too far.

But she doesn't and when Murphy walks up to them to plead with Bellamy, she can only look away as her brother reminds him that they found Wells' fingers on the ground with his knife. To her it almost sounds like Bellamy is begging him to prove him wrong, somehow, and she watches her brother's eyes lock with Murphy's, searching, waiting for him to come up with something – anything.

The kid's eyes quickly dart to hers, betrayal clear on his face, before he turns away from the siblings to defend himself one more time.

'I already told you, I didn't kill anyone.' he protests, his voice trembling only slightly and Octavia feels a hinge of panic as the crowd gathers tightly around them. No one believes him.

'Bellamy?' she asks under her breath but he ignores her.

'I say we float him.'

Before she knows what's happening, Murphy disappears in a crowd of angry bodies and all she hears are shouts. She vaguely registers as Bellamy pulls her back from the scene. She wants to whirl around and punch his face bloody for letting this escalate but there's too much movement and when she turns back to where the boy was standing, she catches a glimpse of someone kicking him while he's on the ground.

'OK, that's enough.' she shouts trying to make her way over to him but Bellamy snatches her wrist and pulls her back, his brown eyes never leaving the scene before them as the beating intensifies. She looks at her brother, outrage distorting her features, and grabs his jacket to coax him into doing something, into calling them off; but he just stands there and, in that very moment, she wants him to  _burn_ .

'You did this! This is you mess! Do something!'

 

\--------------------------------

 

Mbege tastes blood in his mouth as he shoulders into the crowd and grabs a handful of the first jacket he can get his hands on to pull one of Murphy's assailants off but he gets there too late and before he has time to reach his friend, he sees them drag him off deeper into the woods.

Murphy never screams, not even after they tighten the gag around his mouth so hard Mbege can already see blood dripping from the other kid's broken lip. The darker teen winces as his vision blurs after he head-butts another delinquents in a vain attempt to reach his friend.

He wants to scream at him, he wants to shout that he  _fucking_ told him so. That Blake was just using him the whole time. That there was never any doubt in his mind that things would end like this, with a mob stringing Murphy up from a tree and their fearless leader cowering in the back, silently. 

He want to tells his friend that he's a fucking  _dumbass_ but he's afraid he'll never get to do that.

 

\---------------------------------

 

Bellamy never looks away.

It's his mess and he has no right to look away as they tighten the gag around Murphy's head hard enough to bruise. No right to spare himself the sight of that gawky kid being hauled up into the tree. No right to close his eyes as Murphy calls out to him –  _him_ , the very reason he finds himself hanging from a tree in the first place – through the gag. He can hear the words, muffled by the wet fabric as they are, he can hear Murphy telling him - no one but  _him -_ that he didn't do this.

'Bellamy,  _please_ .' 

He has to watch because he's doing this as much as they are. He's not stopping them.

Octavia hisses at him, shoves at him, grabs handfuls of his jacket and shakes him, angrier than he's ever seen her. After a while, her voice is reduced to a pleading whisper as she tells him it's not too late.

But it is _too_ _late_. It's been too late for Murphy since the very moment Bellamy walked into his life. He wants to tell her he always planned for something like this to happen. That he needs to give the people what they want. That leadership demands sacrifice. That he's doing this for her. Anything to make her stop looking at him like _that_. Like she doesn't know him. Like she doesn't _recognise_ him.

Clarke gets in his face, so close he can still smell the shampoo in her hair, demanding that he do something, that he calls off the mob. And he turns his anger at her because she  _made_ him do this, because he wasn't  _ready_ for this. 

The crowd is chanting his name and Octavia is begging him to stop this and Murphy... Murphy is still pleading with him, swearing he didn't kill Wells and Bellamy knows - he  _knows_ the boy didn't kill Wells.

Not the boy that sits by him at the fire, bumping shoulders with him when they laugh; not the boy that follows him around with a spring in his step, admiration clear on his face; not the boy he watches when he sleeps at night in the Dropship, when no one is looking.

But he kicks the crate, because its too late and that's what the people want.

 

\--------------------------------

 

'No, just stop, okay? Murphy didn't kill Wells, I did!'

The little girl's voice rings like shattering crystal through the forest and the mob instantly goes quiet. Everything stands still. When the words finally hit her, Octavia leaps into motion with a savage cry. She shoves past her brother and reaches the tree just as Clarke whips out Bellamy's axe and cuts down the rope in one swift motion. The younger Blake crouches next to Finn as he loosens the rope around Murphy's neck and Octavia finds herself whispering to the boy soothingly as the crowds erupts again behind her. She's vaguely aware of Clarke hovering next to them, holding a hand under Murphy's nose.

'He's breathing...' she sighs, relieved. 'He's unconscious but he's breathing.'

Octavia absently listens as Clarke ask for volunteers to carry Murphy into the medical tent so she can inspect him for any life-threatening injuries. The commotion behind them is intensifying and she overhears one of the kids, none other than John Mbege, demanding justice for what the mob nearly did to his friend. Unexpectedly, she hears a few other voices muttering in agreement.

She's also surprised to find Bellamy amongst the volunteers to bring Murphy back, even more so when he pushes the other boy away to slide one arm under the unconscious kid's knees and another one under his back, pushing himself up swiftly and making off with the boy sagging in his arms.

'Now you give a shit.' she hears herself hissing angrily.

Bellamy keeps stomping away and she hobbles on her injured leg to keep up with the punishing pace he is setting. Instead of taking Murphy to the medical tent, he goes a few paces further and carries the boy into his own tent, Mbege visibly fuming behind him as the older sibling deposits an inanimate John Murphy onto his bed, gently cradling the kid's head as he manoeuvres him up the makeshift mattress and pushes a rolled up jacket under his neck to support it.

Octavia watches nervously as Bellamy pushes himself back up to face an uncharacteristically expressive Mbege. The darker boy towers over her brother, glowering down at him and the younger Blake braces herself as she watches the two; Mbege's fists clenching and unclenching at his sides and Bellamy's jaw clamped so tight she fears he might crack a tooth.

'I said to take him to medical--' Clarke snaps as she enters the tent, coming to an abrupt stop at the sight of the two men, poised for a fight, their faces mere inches apart.

Neither one of them breaks eye contact as she approaches. Clarke gently touches Mbege's elbow and looks over to Bellamy.

'I need you two out so I can have a look at him.' she says softly. 'John, get me some water and a clean cloth. Bellamy, tell Monty I'm going to need some more of the poultice we made with the red algae.'

The men finally seem to snap out of their trance and as soon as they are out of the tent, Clarke turns to Octavia, gesturing for her to get closer as she crouches by the bed.

'I need to get his jacket off. Help me out.'

 

\----------------------------------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, Murphy's Law with a twist. the next chapter will fit in somewhere between the end of episode 4 and the start of episode 5. We'll be getting a bit more awkward!Jasper and a hell of a lot more angry/motherly!Octavia. Oh yeah and Bellamy being a bit less of an ass.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this. don't hesitate to share you suggestions. :D


	5. Part 2: We've gone too far, from pride to shame

#  Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

 

### Chapter 1: We've gone too far, from pride to shame

 

 

'He still hasn't woken up.'

Clarke turns to an anxious looking Octavia with a tentative smile. The midday sun is shining through the red fabric of the tent, bathing the younger girl's pinched features in a dramatic crimson glow.

'His pupils are responsive and he's breathing normally.' she tries to reassure the brunette. 'It's not uncommon for people to lose consciousness for an extended period of time after a blow to the head. He might have a mild concussion.'

'It's been _hours_ , Clarke!' Octavia protests impatiently, throwing her hair back in frustration. 'Where the hell is Bellamy?'

Clarke's smile dies on her lips as her thoughts drift towards the events currently unfolding back at the Dropship. She's managed to slip out for a few minutes, long enough to ensure Murphy's vitals are still stable but she knows she cannot afford to leave the moot unsupervised for too long.

'It's been a little over an hour, actually.' she responds calmly, looking down at her watch. 'And Bellamy is still busy trying to diffuse the situation with Charlotte.'

Octavia scoffs derisively and plop herself back down on the ground by the bed, her hands absently wringing a wet cloth in the basin at her feet.

'You mean like he tried to diffuse the situation with Murphy?' she scowls. 'Oh wait, I forget. He didn't.'

Clarke wants to contradict her, to tell her that her brother did his best, that controlling an angry crowd is a lot more difficult than she can imagine; but she doesn't find it in her heart to lie to the girl. She was there. She'd watched helplessly as the mob strung Murphy up, a mob that  _she_ had inadvertently instigated, a mob that she had  _incensed_ . Her stomach turns and a wave of nausea threatens to overcome her at the memory of those enraged faces, looking to  _her_ for guidance, looking to Bellamy for approval. 

'At least you tried to stop them.' Octavia sighs, as if sensing her train of thoughts, grabbing one of Murphy's hand and patting the flayed knuckles gently with the wet cloth to removes some of the caked mud that covers the wounds. 'Bellamy kicked the crate. He  _kicked_ the  _fucking_ crate.'

A deep frown creasing her brow, Clarke takes a step towards the younger Blake sibling and awkwardly pats her on the shoulder, hating herself for not finding the words to soothe her indignation. She wants to tell her about her own mother's deception, to tell her that she'd hated Wells, that she's hated the wrong person for months, thinking he had sold her father out. She wants to draw a parallel between Octavia's disappointment and her own, to tell her that she's also felt the devastating blow of betrayal.

'I don't even know why I fucking care.' Octavia groans, plunging the cloth back into the basin, wrinkling her nose as the water turns a muddy red-brown in front of her eyes. 'He's not  _my_ friend. He's  _his_ fucking friend. He should be here.'

 

\------------------------------

 

When Clarke leaves the tent, mumbling something about having to go check on Charlotte, Octavia doesn't try to hold her back. She's frustrated and she's angry and she can't fucking get Murphy's bloody hands clean. She tries, god she tries, but there's always more blood and mud and she can't, for the life of her, figure out why she gives a shit.

'Yeah, you just fucking lie there and let me do all the work, fuckwad.' she snaps at him, slapping the damp cloth across a ghastly white cheek. It lands with a satisfying slosh but the boy doesn't budge.

'I don't think that's how you wake someone up from a coma.' someone chirps up behind her.

She spins around on her heels to glare at the intruder, ready to chew them out only to find Jasper's head poking through the tent flap tentatively.

'Yeah well, why don't you try giving him a kiss?' she smirks, inviting him in with a wave of her hand. 'See if  _that_ works.'

'Are you kidding?' he scoffs as he pulls back the tent flap and takes few steps inside before crouching down by her side. 'What if douchebaggery is contagious and I suddenly find myself acting like a total ass.'

She stays silent for a second too long and Jasper winces before adding hastily, 'I mean. I--I don't think he deserved  _this_ . I'm not saying being an asshole should be punishable by death...'

'I know that's not what you meant.' Octavia interrupts his rambling with a sigh as she picks up the damp cloth and starts rubbing some of the mud from Murphy's forehead. 'And just so you know... I don't think _douchebaggery_ is a word.'

Jasper laughs and Octavia can't help the small smile tugging at her lips. She won't admit it to anyone but she's grateful for the company and, with all that's happened, she's glad it was Jasper who decided to come check on her, of all people.

'Speaking of assholes....' she continues, bumping her shoulder into his playfully. 'Have you seen my brother?'

 

\------------------------------

 

'She's just a little girl!', someone explodes. 'You can't seriously be suggesting we hang a little girl.'

'So it's OK to string up a seventeen year old kid for a murder he didn't commit but hanging a twelve year old sociopath is a bit too rich for your stomach?'

The second voice, Bellamy recognises as John Mbege's. The debate has been going around in circles with neither him nor Clarke intervening and Bellamy knows that until one or the two of them voice their opinion, no progress will be made. He shifts uncomfortably, kneading at the back of his neck with weary fingers, part of him itching to wash his hands of the girl's fate, to go back to his tent and wait for Murphy to wake up.

Another part of him – a more cynical part, he reflects – wants to laugh at that. How can he go back to the tent, what could he possibly tell the kid when he wakes up?

_Hey buddy, sorry I tried to kill you for absolutely no fucking reason at all. Are we cool?_

Jaded eyes dropping to the cold metal floor at his feet, Bellamy finds himself wishing he had whisked Murphy away, off into the forest when Clarke first accused the kid of murdering Jaha. They could have left Miller in charge, could have set up camp near the river, taken refuge in the caves when the weather got rough, to live happily ever after or until this whole mess with Jaha blew over, whatever came first.

Then he wouldn't have to deal all this crap... He laughs to himself derisively, shaking his head at the ridiculous fantasy, before turning his attention back to the moot.

'I know she's young but she killed someone. Not in self-defence, not by accident. She killed Wells in cold blood.' some lanky girl with long brown hair weighs in passionately. 'How are we supposed to sleep at night knowing that in addition to the Grounders waiting to slash our throats out  _there_ , there's a basket case on the loose  _inside_ our own camp?'

Bellamy turns to the brunette but before he can raise his voice to ask her what she suggests they do, Clarke takes a hesitant step forward.

'I hate to admit it but Sterling has a point.' she starts and Bellamy finds himself torn between outrage and gratitude. 'You can't kill people to make yourself feel better. We can't send that kind of message.'

'Clarke.' Finn interjects, reaching out to her with a frown. 'Clarke, be careful what you say next.'

'I'm not saying she needs to be hung.' the blond continues, cautiously, sweeping over the assembly of teenagers with a levelled gaze. 'But if someone poses a threat to our safety, to our community, we need to address it.'

A heavy silence engulfs the gathering and Bellamy clenches his jaw as he feels apprehensive eyes shifting to him. He doesn't want to be roped into this but it's as much his mess as it is hers. A mess they made, a mess they need to clean. He takes a deep breath and unfolds his arms, taking a slow step towards the centre of the Dropship to stand in the middle of their gathering, positioning himself so he can look at all of them.

'We could punish her.' he starts, his voice cold, feeling the weight of the delinquents' eyes on him. 'That would set an example but there's no guarantee Charlotte won't snap again.'

A murmur goes through the crowd, a few of the most disgruntled teenagers shake their fists in the air, some voices even chirp up, demanding that they  _float_ the girl. 

'We can  _exile_ her.' the brunette - Sterling – chimes in again and Bellamy hates to admit it but he sure is glad someone else than him made the suggestion.

'How is that any different from floating her?' Finn bursts out, raising his voice to be heard above the commotion as the crowd erupts around them. 'She'll either starve to death or get mauled by a beast. And if that doesn't happen, the Grounders will get her.'

Exceeded, he turns on Clarke.

'Tell me you're not seriously contemplating this.' he pleads.

'Finn, she  _killed_ someone, an innocent man.' she argues.

'Yeah, and what are we planning to do about the people that _almost_ killed an innocent man.' Mbege jumps in, like a dog with a bone, shoving Connor in the chest. 'I say we should exile them with her.'

'You better be ready to exile half the fucking camp, then, because I didn't hang him by myself.' Connor deflects, pushing Mbege back and spitting at his feet.

'Enough.' Bellamy growls at them, jumping in to grab a fistful of fabric from both of their jackets and shoving them away from each other. 'That's a matter for another day. We settle one problem at a time.'

It takes a few minutes for the crowd to settle once again but when he's confident the two won't press the matter, he turns back to the volatile band of delinquents, uneasy eyes following him attentively as he walks back to the centre of the room. He's still pondering his next words when he notices that Finn is nowhere to be found.

'Someone bring Charlotte here.' he starts, cautiously. 'Finn is right, if we throw her out into the jungle we're leaving it up to the Grounders to decide her fate. That's not justice. That's cowardly. We need to decide her fate right he--'

'She's gone!' Finn interrupts, barging back into the Dropship, waving something Bellamy can't see in his hand. 'I went to the medical tent where we were keeping her and she was just gone. She left this on the table.'

Bellamy marches over to him and grabs his wrist to stop the agitated teen's frantic waving and freezing instantly as he recognises the knife he gave Charlotte in the cave while they were waiting for the acid fog to pass.

_'You need to slay your demons, Charlotte...'_

'Shit.' the older Blake mutters, releasing Finn and turning back to the crowd, addressing no one in particular. 'Make sure the camp is sealed. Monitor the exits. No one leaves until we've searched the whole perimeter.'

 

\------------------------------

 

Back in Bellamy's tent, Jasper is still crouching by Octavia's side next to Murphy's bed, his eyes glancing up towards the flap nervously every once in a while as angry shouts reach them from the direction of the Dropship. Eventually, the shouting dies down, only to be replaced by the distressing sound of stomping feet and agitated voices as some of the delinquents run past the tent. He can't quite make out what the voices are saying but there is no mistaking the urgency in them.

'What the hell is going on out there?' he whispers, looking back at her as she wrings the cloth for what feels like the hundredth time.

'With some luck, they're just running for more rope to hang my brother and Clarke.' she spits but he knows she's not serious.

He understands though. Mob justice is an ugly thing, especially when the mob is instigated and fuelled by someone you trusted to maintain the peace in the first place, by someone you respected. Jasper doesn't know what it's like to have a sibling but he can imagine how it would feel to watch Monty transform into some megalomaniac, manipulative asshole. Octavia had told him a little bit about what it was like growing up under the floor boards; about the big brother that used to sing to her for her birthday and read stories to her at night but Jasper found it hard to reconcile that image with the Bellamy Blake he knew.

He grins to himself as he remembers that old song his dad used to sing sometimes and without thinking, he starts singing.

' _And I wonder if he ever has cried,_

_'cause his kitten got run over and died._

_He's got his arms around every man's dream  
And crumbs in his beard from the seafood special_

_Oh can't you see my world is falling apart_  
_Baby please leave the biker  
Leave the biker, break his heart '_

Octavia looks up from the basin of water, her eyes wide as saucers and Jasper can already feel his face burning with embarrassment.

'You're so fucking weird.' she laughs.

'Says the girl who grew up in a two by two storage compartment below floor boar--'

He is cut off mid sentence by a wet rag across the face and freezes when he realises that it's the very rag Octavia has been using to clean Murphy's bloody face all afternoon.

'Oh my god, I'm gonna hurl.' he groans, making gagging sounds and clawing at his face comically.

'Oh come on, I just rinsed it.' she laughs, snatching the rag back from him.

Before she can say anything else, a head pops into the tent through the flap.

'Sterling, what's up?' Jasper asks her, quickly regaining his composure. 'What's going on out there?'

'Have you seen Charlotte?' the tall brunette asks, her eyes darting between them. 'She's escaped from the medical tent and...'

'And you thought that murdering little bitch would come back here to finish the job.' Octavia finishes for her, waving towards the inanimate boy on the bed behind her.

'I should go.' Jasper starts, pushing himself up and dusting his pants. 'Help them look, you know.'

'Make sure Monty hasn't been abducted by that twelve year old psychotic little shit, you mean?' Octavia smiles at him but waves him off. 'I'll stay here and play bodyguard while you do that.'

When she's sure she's alone again, Octavia puts the rag and basin away before lowering herself onto the bed by Murphy's head again.

'I'll be damned if I let anyone kill you after I just spent  _hours_ washing mud from your stupid face.' she smiles sadly, gently brushing a strand of soft brown hair away from the boy's brow.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

'We searched the whole damn camp. Charlotte's nowhere to be found.' Miller reports to Bellamy in a calm, level voice as the light starts fading around them. 'I think she managed to get past the guards at the south gate. We only had two guys posted there and with all the commotion... Well, they probably got distracted.'

Bellamy drags a hand over his face and sighs. If a clumsy little girl managed to squeeze though their high security perimeter he didn't even want to imagine what the Grounders could do.

'We need to beef up security. I want four men guarding each gate at all times. Nobody leaves unless I say so.' he orders, clapping Nathan on the back.

'Bellamy, we need to go looking for her. We have to organise a search party.' Finn counters. 'She won't survive the night alone out there.'

'She made her choice. It was a stupid choice but she knew what she was getting into.' Bellamy reasons. 'She's a smart girl, she won't stay out in the open. She'll hide in one of the caves.'

'Not to mention that if we send a search party after her with torches, every Grounder within a five mile radius will come running.' Miller adds. 'Believe it or not but she'll be safer alone, under the cover of night than in the middle of a battleground with nothing to defend herself with.'

Bellamy nods before turning to Miller again and asking him to have ten of his guys ready to leave at first light. He hopes this will be enough to appease Spacewalker but he's not really counting on it. Not waiting for an answer, the elder Blake picks up a canteen from the table in front of them and walks over the water drum to fill it, doing his best to ignore Finn and Clarke as they argue over whether he can be trusted to make any decision at this point.

He doesn't really care what Finn thinks but as he walks past the fire-pit on his way back to his tent, he can't help but wonder if maybe it wouldn't be best to let someone else call the shots for a while. He never thought he'd be one to shy away from his responsibilities but as the day progressed he found himself second guessing every little choice he made, turning every word around three times in his mouth, knowing that every move, every little remark could send the crowd into another frenzy.

Bellamy stops dead in his tracks in front of the tent. He'd hoped the walk back would take a bit longer, hoped he would get a little more time to think, a little more time to ponder his next move. He looks up at the sky, silently wishing the boy inside is will still be passed out when he enters and wincing at how bad that sounds.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, staring at the flap of his tent with the canteen of water shaking ever so slightly in his hand but suddenly, the flap pulls back and he finds himself face to face with a very irate looking Octavia.

'I can hear you huffing like a buffalo in heat out there, you know?' she snaps, snatching the canteen from his hands and stomping back into the tent to set it down onto the crate he uses as a bedside table.

As she moves away, Bellamy catches a quick glimpse of Murphy's still form sprawled across the bed before the flap falls down again, snapping him out of his reverie, and the older man pushes the fabric to the side and makes his way inside, breath catching in his throat as takes in the kid's pitiful state. One of his eyes is swollen completely shut and there's a long gash down his cheek where someone scratched him. His lower lip is swollen as well and there's another deep gash on his jaw but its the wound he finds lower that bring angry tears to Bellamy's eyes.

He shakes his head, trying to compose himself because he knows getting emotional now isn't going to make the past twelve hours of terrible life choices disappear.

'I cleaned him up as well as I could.' Octavia groans, following his eyes as he lets his gaze wander back to the angry purple bruises on the boy's pale neck and Bellamy has to blink because for a second, it almost looks like the rope is still there.

'Octavia...' he wants to apologise, wants to make things better somehow.

'No.' she snaps, throwing her hands into the air. 'You don't talk to me! I can't even look at you right now. Just... Just stay with him. I need a break. Make sure he drinks if he wakes up. I need a fucking break.'

And with that she storms out, leaving Bellamy standing in the middle of the tent.

'I'm fucking  _sorry_ ...' he chokes out, voice cracking, not sure whether he's apologising to her or the broken boy in front of him.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

Outside the tent, Octavia is clomping away angrily, hands balled into fist when Clarke reaches out to grab her arm as she storms past the medical tent on her way to the fire-pit.

'Octavia, have you seen Bell--' she starts.

'Fuck Bellamy and fuck  _you_ !' she growls, slapping the blond's hand away. 'I just spent, like, a  _hundred_ hours of my fucking life cleaning the mess you two made. So  _fuck_ you.' 

She's vaguely aware of the small party of people gathering around them.

'Octavia's right!' someone chirps in. 'You started this!'

But Octavia whirls around to face the girl who just spoke up.

'Oh but  _fuck you_ too! I remember only a few people trying to stop them and  _you_ definitely weren't one of them! In fact, fuck every single one of you!' she seethes, wagging a finger around angrily. ' You think you're all better than the people that sent us here but you're a bunch a fucking  _cowards_ , just like them.'

She could go on, she knows she could, but before another words passes her lips, Jasper and Monty shove through the crowd and plant themselves on either sides of her.

'Okay, okay! Fuck you, I think they all get it.' Jasper laughs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders playfully. 'Why don't we all take a chill. Miller and Harper are busy preparing what's left of the scaly panther meat and we're going to roast some of the rabbits Dax brought back yesterday.'

'Yeah, I don't know about you guys but I'm starving.' Monty adds. 'I'm sure we'll all feel a lot more amicable on a full stomach.'

And with that, they both proceed to guide her towards the fire where some of the other kids have already started boiling water in the big cooking drums to make a broth with the discarded panther and rabbit bones.

 

\-----------------------------

 

A soft groan escapes Murphy's chapped lips when Bellamy finally lowers himself onto the bed to sit next to him and the older man freezes for a second, his eyes darting to the tent flap nervously as he tries to quickly calculate how long it would take him to make it out and whether he could be gone before the boy was fully awake. But the kid doesn't stir and after what feels like an eternity, Bellamy lets out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, silently berating himself for his cowardice.

He shakes his head slowly one more time and brings his hands up to his face, massaging his temples and forehead to release some of the tension. With a deep sigh, he lets his hands slide down to squeeze the knotted muscles in his shoulders, wincing as his eyes finally drift up to the boy in his bed.

'I'm sure that's nothing compared to the amount of discomfort you're in.' he sighs, letting go of his shoulders to tug the sheet of parachute fabric Octavia used to cover the kid a little bit higher up his chest.

It's not really cold but Clarke had to rip his old shirt off to clean the mud covered gashes in the boy's sides where nails, sharp rocks and boot soles had managed to tear through the skin, so the sheet is the only thing covering Murphy's narrow chest. Bellamy will have to requisition one of the shirts they got from the kids that died during the landing but that's a problem for another day. For now he's content to just sit there, trailing a hand lazily up the sheet of synthetic fabric to give the boy's shoulder a gently squeeze.

'When you wake up you can kick my ribs in until your feet are sore.' Bellamy smiles sadly as he runs his fingers through the boy's blood-matted brown hair. 'And if you don't kill me, I'm definitely washing your hair.'

 

\-----------------------------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, the first chapter of part 2. I've been struggling with concentration a bit these past two days but I've got the first 3 chapters of this volume written. I just spent a lot of time polishing this first one - really had a hard time with the moot but all in all, I hope it's decent. 
> 
> The song Jasper sings from is 'Leave the Biker' by Fountains of Wayne.
> 
> Thanks for all the love guys! I certainly wasn't expecting all the kudos but it definitely got me motivated.


	6. Part 2: We're hopelessly blissful and blind, that's all we are

# Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

 

###  Chapter 2: We're hopelessly blissful and blind, that's all we are

 

Octavia slips back into her brother's tent at the crack of dawn and the sight that greets her weary eyes is one that leaves her staring silently, mixed feelings of anger and tenderness swirling around in her gut.

She treads towards the night-stand, careful not to trip over Bellamy's shoes where he kicked them off before plopping himself down and propping himself up against the metal board he's scavenged from the Dropship to serve as a headboard behind his bed. During the night, the older Blake sibling somehow managed to shift Murphy's head so that it was resting on his lap as the kid lay sleeping curled on his side with his fingers clutched tightly into the fabric of her brother's cargo pants and Bellamy's hand resting peacefully on his forehead.

The scene feels so eerie to her, so surreal. The two of them sleeping like that as if nothing happened. As if Bellamy hadn't actively participated in Murphy's hanging. The boy's hand twitches, fingers tightening into the fabric covering her brother's leg and Bellamy's hand curls into his hair, his own fingertips digging into dirty locks as he hums gently in his sleep.

Such a soothing sound. Bellamy is so used to comforting her after a nightmare, he can even do this in his sleep.

If it was anyone else but Murphy, she'd probably feel a pang of jealousy but all she feels as she watches them is indignation and she suddenly wants to shake Murphy awake to remind him that this is the man who  _hung_ him from a fucking  _tree_ . She settles for pouring the content of the night old water canteen into one of Bellamy's boots before clearing her throat noisily. 

Bellamy groans and winces as he opens his eyes and a ray of sunlight hits him in the face.

'The search party is about to leave.' she explains, untying a plastic flask from her hip to refill the canteen. 'Miller asked me to come check if you wanted to join them.'

Bellamy looks up at her and she finds a small amount of consolation in the blush that darkens his cheeks as he realises what this must look like to her. He doesn't try to explain, just gently lifts Murphy's head from his lap and nestles it back into a pillow of blankets.

'He hasn't woken up yet.' he tells her, taking his turn to clear his throat. 'I think he had a bad dream.'

'Can't say I blame him...' she hisses under her breath.

'Octavia,' he starts, cautiously. 'when I get back--'

'Oh you have got to be kidding me, Bell.' she seethes. 'You're actually going on a stupid search party to save that murderous little bitch from the Grounders and you expect me to stay here and what? Hold Murphy's hand for you until he wakes up?'

'I don't expect you to do anything.' he hushes softly, trying to get her to lower her voice.

'Stop whispering, Bellamy!' she snaps. 'Or are you so fucking afraid to be here when he wakes up that you'd rather have him stay in a coma until you've thought of a good enough excuse for hanging your  _fucking_ friend from a  _fucking_ tree?'

'Enough! I fucked up, okay. That what you want to hear, O?' he roars. 'I fucked up. I'm a fucking asshole and I fucked up. So just... just stay here with him, okay? Don't leave him alone.'

She turns away from him, wrapping her arms around herself to try to calm her pounding heart as he picks up his boots. She thought hearing him say the words would make her feel better but it doesn't change anything.

'Octavia, please.' he insists when she catches a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye as he lifts the flap of the tent and pauses, waiting for a response.

'Fine.' she sighs, shaking her head as he departs, letting a small humourless smile stretch her lips when she hears him swear under his breath as he slides his foot into a wet boot.

 

\-------------------------------

 

'You're going to bake in here all day?' Jasper mocks as he pokes his head through the tent. 'I mean, your devotion is admirable, and frankly I'm getting a little jealous, but he's not going to vaporise, you know. So how about you slip out to come get some breakfast with us?'

Octavia sighs and throws a rolled up jacket at his head from where she's sitting down on the ground.

'Bellamy asked me to make sure he's not alone when he wakes up.' she defends herself.

'What? Is he afraid Murphy's going to go on a rampage or something – wait it's  _Murphy_ , don't answer that.'

She rolls her eyes at him as he offers a hand to help her stand up but she takes it anyway.

'Besides,' he continues with a mischievous smile splitting that squirrel face of his. 'since when do you do what you're brother tells you? C'mon, the porridge Harper made with those weird looking potato-things Monty found by the river is actually not that bad. And it's boiling hot in here.'

'Okay, okay,' she laughs, whirling him around by the shoulder and shoving him towards the exit. 'Just stop talking, you're annoying as shit and I'm already getting a headache.'

 

\---------------------------------

 

Murphy finally comes to when a harsh beam of sunlight hits his eyes from a tear in the tent above his head. The heat is stifling so he sits up and throws back the parachute cover before running a hand through his hair and down his face, wincing as uncomfortably warm fingertips graze over lacerated skin. He swallows nervously as the fingers reach the broken skin at the corner of his lips but he lets them continue down to settle onto rope burnt skin where his hand wraps around the front of his neck protectively.

'Shit.' he chokes out, looking around the tent wildly, desperate to find any reason to believe the memories of the previous day are nothing but the trick of a wild imagination. He almost laughs when he realises whose tent this is.

_This isn't happening..._

He takes a deep breath to curb the panic rising in his chest and shakes his head. Once. Twice. Three times. But the skin around his neck is still raw and broken when he reaches up again with shaky hands.

_He's gonna fucking kill me..._

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

'Shit. Murphy.' Octavia barks, eyes widening as she catches sight of the boy hurrying past the Dropship on his way to the wall, looking every bit like he intends to scratch his way through it.

She's vaguely reminded of one of those cartoon Bellamy would borrow from the archives to show her when they were little; of the Tasmanian Devil whirling like a tornado, ripping through everything that stood in his way, leaving nothing but a hole in the walls behind him... a Tasmanian Devil shaped hole.

She briefly wonders what shape hole Murphy would leave if he were to burst through their perimeter wall.

'No,no,no. You need to let me  _go_ , you don't understand. He's going to  _kill_ me.' Murphy pleads, making for the gate again and Octavia can't help but cringe in sympathy at how shaky and rattled he looks as he all but implores the guards to let him through. 'Let me  _the fuck_ out.'

She can barely see his eyes through the messy brown hair that's falling in his face as she approaches but she can feel the raw panic in his stance as he clenches his fists and snarls at the men barring his route.

 _Idiots_ , she thinks to herself as the boys look to each other, smiling carelessly.

Everyone knows John Murphy only has two speeds...fight or flight.

And since flight is visibly not an option, she's hardly surprised when he grabs two fistfuls of Dax' jacket, pulls the taller teen down and head-butts the living daylight out of him. The other kid at the gate, Derek she thinks, lowers his gun to grab Murphy by the shoulder but before he can get a hand on him, the boy bats his arm away and shoulder rams him into the wooden wall behind him.

'Hey hey hey! Get off of him!' Octavia shouts as one of the two remaining guards somehow manages to get Murphy into a headlock while the other one punches him in the stomach. 'Let go of him or I swear I'm going to rip your fucking heads off!'

She grabs hold of the jacket the boy had the sense to throw on before attempting to set off into the wild on his own and pulls him out of reach of the guards.

'Hey, Murphy, come on.' she hushes, coaxing him back, away from the gate, ignoring the crowd gathering around them. 'Come on. Where' you going anyway? There's nothing good out there.'

His eyes keep darting back to the gate and she winces at the edge of panic in his voice as he tries to pull himself free from her grip.

'He's gonna fucking _kill_ me, Octavia.' he says darkly, biting his lower lip as he finally looks up at her. 'I need to _go_.'

'Who's going to kill you?' she asks, meeting his red rimmed eyes, gently squeezing his arm through the oversized jacket he stole from her brother's tent.

'Bellamy.' he hisses, his eyes darting to the gate again. 'He's gonna _fucking_ kill me.'

 

\-----------------------------------

 

When Bellamy gets back to camp he immediately notices the anxious eyes that seem to be following him around everywhere.

They didn't manage to find Charlotte. They stumbled upon some tiny footprints by the caves, as Bellamy had suspected they would, but apart from that, no signs of the girl. So by mid-afternoon, he called off the search and ordered the men to make their way back to camp, Finn and Clarke protesting adamantly but following nonetheless.

He returns to camp by the south gate, the one where Dax and Derek are posted on guard duty and quickly takes notice of the taller boy's bruised nose and dejected composure but he doesn't comment. They'll have to find some outlet for the guys' pent up energy sooner rather than later, before things escalated again. He makes a mental note to ask Monty how far he is with that Moonshine he's been working on 'secretly' in his lab.

The camp is disturbingly silent for a late afternoon and every step Bellamy takes, he can feel his own anxiety building. He guesses it's not really all that surprising after the events of the past few days. They've all been through a lot and their confidence, in both themselves and their leadership, is visibly shaken.

When he gets to his tent, he turns to Dell and briefly claps the man on the back in gratitude for keeping the camp running smoothly during the day. Dell frowns and opens his mouth to say something but visibly thinks better of it as he mutters a quick 'don't mention it' before hurrying off towards the open kitchen.

When Bellamy lifts the flap of the tent and his searching eyes land on the empty bed, his stomach drops.

 

\---------------------------------

 

Octavia is sitting by the ladder that leads to the last level of the Dropship with Monty and Jasper, the latter's eyes darting up to the hole above their heads as if some frenzied beast was going to pounce down to devour them any moment.

The frenzied beast in question being none other than a very guarded John Murphy.

Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap.

'Was giving him the bouncy ball really a good idea?' Octavia groans, rolling her eyes. 'I mean, he could choke on it or something.'

'Yes, if he were a toddler.' Monty responds. 'Sterling said it helps her unwind when she feels anxious. Something about the rhythmic noise and repetitive movement that gets her in a trance.'

She know some of the delinquents have managed to smuggle some personal effects into the Dropship, that doesn't really come as a surprise. Jasper brought his goggles, Clarke has her watch. But why would someone bring a  _bouncy ball_ ... of all things. 

Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap.

She snaps out of her train of thoughts at the hollow sound of hard boot soles connecting with the metal step of a ladder down below and surprises herself by hoping that it's someone else - anyone else - than her brother. She's not quite ready to explain why she wasn't in the tent when Murphy woke up and she's hoping the kid will have settled down a bit by the time Bellamy gets here.

Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap.

'Clarke! I thought you'd never come.' Jasper exclaims dramatically. 'Murphy's having psychotic episode and we're not going to be able to hold him much longer.'

'Oh shut up, you absolute ass!' Octavia snaps at him, clapping him behind the head.

'He's not having a psychotic episode.' Monty sighs, pushing himself up and dusting his pants. 'He's just been... a bit quiet.'

'A bit quiet?' Jasper chuckles. 'Dude hasn't said a word in the past four hours.'

'Yeah and how talkative would you feel if you'd just woken up from a twenty-four hour coma after being being hung from a tree by an angry mob?' Monty sighs. 'Look, I'm just saying we need to give the guy some space. Make sure he's got water and food. And leave him the hell alone for a while.'

Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap.

'I'm telling you, he's plotting a mass murder in there.'

'Sterling came to get me.' Clarke frowns. 'I need to have a look at him. Make sure he doesn't have a concussion.'

Octavia sighs and pushes herself off the ground as well, following Clarke up the ladder and leaving Jasper and Monty bickering down below. The last level of the Dropship is surprisingly peaceful as the skylight in the roof lets in some of the dying afternoon light that's filtering through the green foliage covering the top of the aircraft. It almost feels like one of these greenhouses Bellamy had shows her pictures of in one of those old Earth magazines.

Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap.

'What the hell is that sound.' Clarke whispers.

'Sterling and Monty thought it would be a good idea to give him a bouncy ball.' Octavia sighs, pointing to the corner where Murphy's sitting sprawled against a wall, towards the back of the room. 'Something about it having a relaxing effect and all that.'

The last level is narrow. Narrow enough for him to be able to bounce the ball against the opposite wall from where he is sitting without straining, the light from above head casting a greenish hue on everything, including the messy head of brown hair that rests against bare metal.

The delinquents have long since requisitioned the last few seats from the Dropship so its not really surprising to find him sitting on the cold ground like that but something about the image causes a small pinch in Octavia's chest. She wonders if she'll ever see the kid beaming up at her brother the way he used to when the two of them sat close by the fire these first few nights.

'You say he hasn't spoken for four hours?' Clarke asks, her voice breaking the eerie silence causing Octavia to give a small nod. 'Did he speak at all when he woke up?'

A pang of guilt tugs at the younger Blake's stomach and she feels heat rising to her cheeks.

'I don't know. He was alone when he woke up.' she explains with a dismissive wave of her hand, trying to appear nonchalant. 'I was getting breakfast.'

To her relief, Clarke just nods and takes a few confident steps towards where Murphy is sitting.

'He did speak when I found him by the gate though.' Octavia continues. 'You know, before and after he head-butted the living hell out of Dax.'

A small smirk dances on her lips at the memory of a frenzied Murphy violently bashing his forehead into the lanky teen's nose. This shouldn't make her happy, she knows. Murphy could get in a lot of shit for it and the unspoken agreement had been for her to keep him out of trouble until Bellamy got back. But she'd never really liked Dax, never knew where she stood with him. He was an alright guy, from what she could tell, but he was so hard to read she always found herself avoiding him. Which wasn't exactly a feat considering the blond mostly kept to himself.

'He head-butted someone?' Clarke frowns. 'If he didn't have a concussion before, he's very likely to have one now.'

Of course, Octavia hadn't thought about that. She closes the gap between them in a few short strides as Clarke finally crouches down next to Murphy.

'Murphy, can you hear me?' she asks, tentatively, reaching out to push the hair out of the boy's forehead so she can shine a lamp in his eyes.

The silence stretching on for a bit longer and Octavia finds herself wishing she was the one they gave the bouncy ball to as she tries to find something to do with her hands while they wait.

'Of course I can hear you.' comes the snarky response. 'I'm dyslexic, not deaf.'

The silence stretches on for a few seconds and suddenly, a bark of laugher reaches them from the floor below.

'What,' Octavia hears Jasper whine. 'That was funny. Hey, don't punch me.'

'You're an insensitive jackass.' Monty berates.

But Octavia can't help chuckling a bit herself as Clarke continues probing Murphy's face with her fingers while he tries to wave her off by batting her arm away.

'Do you remember what happened?' Clarke continues, unperturbed, tilting his head to the side to inspect his ear.

She's trying to sound casual but Octavia can almost feel the guilt in her eyes as she pushes his chin up to look at his neck. The younger Blake finds herself wincing at sight of the mess of angry bruises standing out starkly against Murphy's pale skin in long, ugly lines across his throat. From where she's standing, she can't really see them but she knows scabs are probably forming where the rope lacerated the skin.

'Do I remember getting my ass handed over to me by an angry mob.' he scoffs, finally managing to bat Clarke's hand away successfully. 'Yeah, that kind of rings a bell.'

The girls look at each other nervously but neither one of them wants to be the one asking him if he remembers the hanging. Fortunately for them, Murphy continues in a calm voice.

'Don't worry, I remember what happened after that as well.' he smiles, lips stretching into a thin line before adding in a quieter voice. 'And no, I'm not having a _psychotic episode_...'

 

\------------------------------

 

Bellamy finally makes it to the Dropship and launches up the ladder with a grunt, panic lacing his gut at the thought of what he might find when he gets to the top.

He knows he wasn't exactly rational when he barged through the open kitchen, grabbing a fistful of Connor's shirt and demanding to know where Murphy was. He knows, although that's the very first place his mind raced to, the idea of Connor having somehow managed to slip into his tent unnoticed to murder Murphy in his sleep was completely preposterous. Yet he made no effort to conceal his hostility as he wrenched more information from the grovelling kid.

He told him about the confrontation at the gate and his mind jumped back to Dax' bloody nose. He told him how Octavia managed to snake Murphy out of the crowd and how they retreated to the Dropship. He even told him about her ferocious threat to, quote, 'Tear through the rib-cages of anyone who dared to follow them with her bare hands', end quote.

Yet here he finds himself, climbing the steps of the first ladder two at a time, heart racing at the thought of finding Octavia – or Murphy, his erratic mind chimes in – in anything else than good health.

Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap.

'Bellamy, hey.' Jasper greets him, his voice a few decibels louder than necessary and the freckled man frowns as he realises with a start that the kid is warning the people above of his coming.

Tap-tap-Clap.Tap-tap-Clap.Tap-tap-Clap.

'Jasper,' he greets back with a nod and he looks up at the ladder, suddenly unsure as to how he should proceed.

Tap-tap-Clap.Tap-tap-Clap.

'Bouncy ball.' Monty explains with a small nervous smile, Bellamy's eyes never leaving the hole above their heads.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, I like wilding!Murphy - if he was a doge meme he'd be 'wow - much rage, such survival, what wild - wow'
> 
> In the next chapter Bellamy finally faces Murphy and Raven come shooting down from the sky to provide the boys with a much needed distraction.


	7. Part 2: A world of disbelief where I belong

# Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

### Chapter 3: A world of disbelief where I belong

 

 

When he finally regains his composure – and musters some much needed bravado – Bellamy grabs onto the last step of the ladder firmly and hoists himself up onto the last level of the Dropship. He takes a brief moment to let his eyes adjust to how surprisingly warm and light the room feels then forces himself to take a step forward. His searching gaze finally lands on the boy sitting sprawled against a wall towards the back of the room.

Bellamy holds his breath, almost expecting the kid to jump up and charge at him but when a brief nod of acknowledgement from Clarke is the only movement that breaks the utter stillness of the room, he lets his shoulders sag a bit and takes another few steps to come crouch awkwardly a few meters from where Murphy is sitting.

Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap.

Save for the monotonous sound of the ball hitting a wall, rebounding and slapping into an open hand, the room is silent. Bellamy makes a mental note to ask Octavia where they found a bouncy ball, of all things, but for now the silence is not half as uncomfortable as he'd expected it to be, so he's content to let it stretch.

After a little while, Clarke gets up and walks over to Octavia.

'He's been taking fluids, he's not catatonic and he has yet to show any sign of spacial or temporal disorientation.' he hears the blond explain and allows a small grin to tug at the corner of his lips as he watches Murphy roll his eyes at the pompous medical jargon. 'All in all, things are looking pretty good. See if you can make him eat something.'

'They've been at it for the past fifteen minutes.' Murphy estimates in a slow, detached voice. 'Talking over my head like I'm not in the room, fussing like a couple of mother hens.'

Bellamy laughs softly into his hand and lowers himself into a sitting position, deciding he might as well get comfortable.

Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap.

Clarke departs and the silence settles upon them once more, so Bellamy takes this opportunity to examine the boy in front of him before the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the hills outside. His skin is pale, slightly more so than usual, and his eye – the one that isn't completely swollen shut – looks hollow and tired, dark shadows painting the skin below it, making him look a good five years younger than he did the last time Bellamy saw him.

Someone – Octavia, he assumes – managed to find a dark grey t-shirt for him. It's faded and oversized, the fabric pooling loosely around his midsection, but its better than the blood drenched atrocity they had to tear off of him after the lynching. Bellamy hadn't been there when they ripped it out but Octavia had gladly painted the grim picture for him.

_He looks like a_ dalmatian. _You remember these spotted dogs from the cover of that book you read to me from sometimes. He looks like that, except... more 'purple and green' than 'black and white', you know._

'Murph, you alright?' he asks quietly after awhile. It's a stupid question and he almost regrets opening his mouth but he can't help himself.

'I'm alive, aren't I?' Murphy rasps, giving him that slow, hollow smirk, eyes never leaving the ball as it bounces off the wall again. Tap-tap. Clap.

'Murphy...'

Bellamy tries to find words - something that's usually never a problem for him - but before he can get anything else out, the other boy cuts him off with an impatient wave of his hand.

's fine, Bell. I'm fine.'

Bellamy lets it go, partly because he doesn't really know what to say and partly because he doesn't want to know how Murphy really feels.

 

\-------------------------------

 

Octavia watches the exchange silently for a while longer. When Murphy starts throwing the ball again, she grits her teeth, feeling the last remnants of her patience slowly melting away, every little tap-tap pushing her a bit closer to the edge of sanity itself.

Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap.

'It's getting dark outside.' she snaps suddenly, wiping sweaty palms on the legs of her overalls as she prepares to make for the ladder. But before she can move an inch, Bellamy's voice breaks the silence behind her.

'You can share a tent with me.' he tells Murphy and the younger Blake wants to roll her eyes at how naive her brother sounds. 'I'll move the blankets around a bit to make a second bed.'

Tap-tap-Clap.Tap-tap-Clap.

There's an uncomfortable pause after that and Octavia lets her eyes dart between the two of them, half expecting something dramatic to happen.

'Yeah, I don't think so, Bell.' Murphy winces eventually, massaging the back of his neck with his hand, his eyes drifting back to the ball in his lap.

'I'll go get my things, then.' Bellamy retorts with a curt nod, his tone so final that even Murphy takes the hint. The boy forces an awkward smile as his freckled counterpart pushes up from the ground and makes off towards the ladder with another quick nod towards Octavia as he passes her.

'Oh great, so I'm on baby-sitting duty. _Again_.' she snorts, slapping her hands on her thighs to convey some of her frustration. 'I haven't seen the sky in what feels like a frigging _week_ but okay, I'll just stay here and watch over _assface_ over there while you go frolic around camp.'

'Shame, Pocahontas' Murphy chuckles, throwing the ball at the wall again. 'It's not like you spent the first fifteen years of your life watching the world through floorboards. Oh wait.'

He pauses, eyes opening wide as he brings a hand up to his gaping mouth before letting out a dramatic gasp.

'You're an absolute  _asshole_ , Murphy.' she growls, bending down to pick up an old, discarded sock and balling it into her hand to throw it at his face for emphasis. 

Murphy gives another low chuckles as the sock flops down onto the floor a good meter in front of him then watches a seething Octavia stomp over to the trapdoor angrily to sit at the ladder with her legs dangling from the gap in the floor.

The silence once again fills the room.

Tap-tap. Clap. Tap-tap. Clap.

'O?' Murphy calls out after a while, setting the ball down onto his lap to rub his nose into the back of his wrist.

Looking up from the hole in the ground in front of her, Octavia gives him a blunt 'what', feigning annoyance but silently grateful to see Murphy acting so much like his old self.

'Thanks.' the boy starts, a deep frown on his face as he visibly struggles to get the words out. 'For not telling him about... you know, what I said at the gate.'

Octavia gives him another curt nod but she can't help the wave of sympathy that washes over her at the memory of a panic-stricken Murphy grabbing onto her hand, his voice broken and raw as he explained why he had to leave camp.

_'Bellamy.' he hisses, his eyes darting to the gate again. 'He's gonna fucking kill me.'_

 

\--------------------------------

 

'Bellamy, wait up.' Clarke calls out to him as the older Blake makes his way back to the Dropship with a heavy looking bundle of blankets cradled under his arm and two bowls of food precariously balanced into his hands .

'What is it, Griffin?' he frowns, pausing to let her catch up.

'Have you spoken to him?' she challenges, cocking a brow up at him questioningly.

'Yeah,' Bellamy grunts, re-adjusting the blankets under his arms. 'He says he's fine.'

'He's not _fine_ , Bellamy.' Clarke admonishes, brushing long blond hair off a narrow shoulder, and the older man mentally cringes as he realises he's in for another sermon. 'He needs to talk about what happened. You need to help him through this.'

Bellamy lets out a long sigh and kicks at the dust at his feet impatiently, frustrated because he knows Clarke is right; because he knows ignoring the elephant in the room is not only cowardly but also incredibly unhealthy.

'What do you want us to do, Clarke?' he scorns, squaring his shoulder defensively. 'Hold hands and talk about our feelings until the little hours of the morning?'

He's too weary for this, too drained to contemplate the direness of the situation he finds himself in and he certainly doesn't have the patience to sit through another one of Clarke's lectures on what it takes to be a good leader. So he turns on his heels and closes the short distance between them and the hatch.

'Not sure if you noticed but that's not exactly something either Murphy or I excel at.' he scoffs over his shoulder as he disappears into the Dropship.

 

\--------------------------------

 

'You sure, Bell?' Octavia asks, arching one perfect eyebrow up as she grabs the bowls from the older man's outstretched hand before he manages to spill everything onto the ground at her feet. She sets them down onto a crate and looks back to her brother expectantly as Bellamy proceeds to hoist himself up into the room.

'Yes, I'm sure you can have the bloody tent. Just don't burn it down.' he sighs and adds, as an afterthought, 'And don't bring _guys_ back to it.'

'Whatever.' the younger Blake chuckles, halfway down the ladder before the curly-haired man has time to add anything else.

It took him less time than Murphy had expected to gather whatever he'd deemed essential from his tent and return with an armful of blankets, two bowls of porridge and a fillet of dried meat dangling from a string he had tied around one of his wrists. How the guy had managed to bring all of this up two ladders and into his top floor penthouse, Murphy had no clue but he sure wasn't about to complain. He was starving and, as if on cue, his stomach let out a low rumble so he brought a hand up to massage it gently, craning his neck to peek inside the bowls impatiently.

'Clarke says winter is coming.' Bellamy laughs, handing him one of the two dishes before sitting himself down on the floor a respectable distance to his right. 'We need to get some fat on your bones before the first wave of cold hits.'

'Hilarious, boss.' Murphy sniggers, absently digging through the yellowish porridge in his bowl with the wooden spatula that was planted in it. 'Hopefully no one decides to warm me up by setting my pants on fire while I'm taking a nap.'

'Sounds like something Jasper would do.' Bellamy huffs as he slices the fillet of dried meat in half with his knife and hands Murphy the thickest portion.

'The kid's a nut-job, I'll give you that.' the boy concedes.

They sit in silence and for a few moments – a few delightful moments – Murphy pretends nothing's changed; pretends his stomach is not knotted at the idea of going to sleep in the same room as Bellamy Blake; pretends he's not petrified at the idea of getting out of the Dropship to face the kids that strung him up.

When he's done with his food, he sets the bowl down on the floor and fishes the ball out of his pocket.

'So you didn't find Charlotte, huh?' he asks after a while, noticing how Bellamy tenses up at the mention of the girl's name.

'We found some footprints by the caves.' Bellamy starts. 'I'll admit my heart wasn't really into the search. The vast majority of the kids seemed pretty content with the idea of exiling her so what difference does it make?'

'Bellamy Blake, the people-pleaser.' Murphy scoffs snidely, wiping his nose into his sleeve to avoid having to make any form of eye contact as he feels the other man's heavy stare burn into the side of his head. 'You always did love giving the people what they want.'

He hears the gentle clink of a bowl being set down onto the cold hard floor and the hiss of creasing fabric as Bellamy shifts uncomfortably next to him, the older man visibly putting a lot thought into his response.

'You got something you want to say to me, Murph?' Bellamy finally retorts in a gruff voice and for a second, the boy berates himself for the snarky remark, hoping he hasn't somehow broken the fragile truce between them. He allows himself a sardonic grimace as a little voice in the back of his mind reminds him that his very survival depends on his ability to remain on good terms with the Rebel Prince.

But when he looks up at the older man, there's no anger on that freckled face, no disappointment in the soft hazel eyes. All he finds there is a mix of sadness, frustration and something else he can't quite place.

Murphy doesn't know how to deal with this. Anger is something he understands but that look Bellamy is giving him... He doesn't know what that look is, let alone how to respond to it.

'Nothing, Blake.' he grunts, shoving the ball back into his pocket and pushing himself off the ground brusquely, every muscle in his body screaming at the searing pain of sudden movement. 'I'm beat. I'm going to sleep.'

A blatant lie. How can he possibly find sleep when his mind is still reeling from the events of the past few days? How can he possibly close his eyes when the very thought of turning his back on Bellamy Blake sends a cold shiver down his spine?

But Murphy likes to think he's not one to wallow in self-pity, so he pushes the dark thoughts to the back of his mind, into that little box he keeps for all the feelings and memories he does not care to dwell on or revisit. A little box full of memories of a father begging for his life, of a mother's ashen face as she lays lifeless on the floor in a pool of her own vomit... and of Bellamy Blake's emotionless stare as he kicks the crate from under Murphy's feet.

Bellamy watches him pick up a couple of blankets, without a word, only opening his mouth to remind the boy to have a few sips of water before he doses off.

 

\----------------------------------

 

'What the hell?'

Bellamy is brutally shaken from his slumber when Murphy's alarmed voice thunders through the Dropship as the boy springs up from the floor. The older man notes the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes dart around the room nervously, in search of something to defend himself with. The sound of heavy footsteps is progressively getting closer on the ladder down below and Bellamy feels a familiar pang of guilt deep inside his chest as he tries to imagine what Murphy is thinking while they sit here in the dark, listening to the commotion outside.

'Murph, I'm sure it's nothing.' Bellamy sighs, rolling onto his side and pushing himself onto his feet to stop the kid before he clubs their late night visitor in the head with the crow bar he wrenched from the emergency cache.

'The fuck do you know?' Murphy snarls at him, his eyes wild and unnerving as he bats his hand away to take another menacing step towards the open trapdoor.

The older Blake steps up behind him and gently spins him around by the shoulder before making another attempt to pacify the distraught boy. When he's confident Murphy is not going to bolt, Bellamy steps in closer and clamps a hand around the back of his neck firmly.

'Murph, look at me.' he coaxes, his voice calm but implacable. 'You need to snap out of it. I'm not going to let them get to you.'

_Again_ , he wants to add, but the word catches in his throat and he can't push it out, as if admitting his part of responsibility in the boy's lynching would somehow make it all real. Murphy is looking up at him with those unnerving blue eyes and he can't bring himself to twist the knife so he just curls his hand around the back of the boy's neck and pulls him in gently to bump their foreheads together. 

When all else fails, Bellamy knows he can always rely on touch with Murphy. Because words are tricky but touching always comes easy to the older man; because Murphy is starved for physical contact and Bellamy has this pathological urge to touch things, to touch people when words are too hollow to convey sentiment.

'You're okay.' he mutters under his breath, feeling the kid relax into his hands. 'We're okay.'

Murphy's stare never leaves him. The swelling around his left eye has subsided enough for him to peer up at the older man with those two disconcerting orbs and Bellamy feels a tinge of unease as he realises the boy is searching his face for a reason not to believe him.

'We're okay.' Bellamy repeats, not entirely sure whether he's trying to convince Murphy or himself.

 

\----------------------------------

 

Murphy doesn't know how long they stay like this, Bellamy's hands cradling the back of his neck firmly, calloused fingertips kneading at knotted muscles, their foreheads casually pressed together. It's not a tender gesture, it's not even intimate per say, but it's comfortable and to Murphy, it feels like slipping into a familiar pair of shoes. Because this is the kind of reassuring touches the old Bellamy would dispense freely; the kind of attention the old Murphy craved.

Before camaraderie gave way to disappointment and anger; before the floor caved in under Murphy's feet and he watched his world fade into black through misty eyes.

He turns his face away, slowly, then gently attempts to remove Bellamy's hands from the back of his neck, breath catching in his throat slightly as the older man resists for a fraction of a second before giving in and letting his arms fall back to his sides. He doesn't know what he wants to see on Bellamy's face so he doesn't look at him as he silently distances himself from the older man to crouch by the open trapdoor.

A disembodied voice calls out from the floor below.

'Bellamy?'

'What is it, O?' Bellamy's curt response echoes harshly through the otherwise silent room, his voice rough and thick as he stands over Murphy stiffly.

'Something's falling from the sky. You need to come see this!'

 

\------------------------------

 

He stands near the fire-pit, eyes following the white parachute of the escape pod attentively as it disappears between the trees in the distance, while Murphy hovers nervously behind him. He was vaguely surprised when the kid insisted on following them outside – Bellamy had expected the boy to prostrate himself inside the Dropship for at least another week – but he didn't protest. Or say much of anything for that matter.

'They're coming to help us.' someone shouts to his left.

'Now we can kick some grounder ass.' another voice chimes in.

But Bellamy is hardly paying attention to them, his mind already racing to find a way to divert the group's attention away from the capsule, away from what it possibly contains. Judging by its size, he very much doubts there could be more than two people aboard but even two people could be devastatingly dangerous if they had means to communicate with the Ark.

Without thinking, he turns to Murphy and the boy meets his eyes calmly, giving him a discreet nod. In an instant, they fall back into their old routine. Murphy knows what he's thinking. He knows Bellamy can't afford to let the delinquents communicate with the Ark. And, most importantly, he's the only who knows why.

'We need to get to it before the Grounders.' Octavia urges.

'There's no point leaving now.' Murphy counters, hand planted in his pockets. 'It's dark and the forest is too thick or us to use the stars to navigate.'

'Coward.' someone mutters from the back and Bellamy's jaw clenches as he recognises the voice.

'Murphy's right.' he calls out, ignoring Connor and turning to face the crowd. 'We would just get lost in the dark. I'll a have team ready to leave at first light.'

 

\------------------------------

 

'You stay here.' Bellamy scowls, pushing him in the chest a little harder than strictly necessary.

To Murphy's relief, they had retreated to the Dropship as soon as the crowd that assembled to watch the escape pod's descent had dispersed. Bellamy hastily pulled on a jacket and shoved his handgun into the side of his pants before crouching by his corner of the penthouse to gather the rest of his gear, preparing for an expedition into the forest. But when Murphy grabbed his own jacket to follow, Bellamy turned to him with a commanding look on his face.

'You're in no state to hike through the forest.' Bellamy continues, turning back and crouching to finish lacing his boots.

Murphy doesn't protest because he knows Bellamy needs to be inconspicuous. That he will attract a lot less attention slipping out of camp on his own that he would with the nervous wreck that is John Murphy straggling along behind him. More importantly, he knows why Bellamy can't afford to let anyone get to the pod before him.

The irony is not lost to him and he lets a small sardonic smile stretch his lips as he contemplates the fact that he'd been hung for the murder of Wells Jaha – a murder he didn't commit – and that Bellamy Blake, the man who had shot Jaha's father, had been the one to kick the crate from under his feet.

'I need--' Bellamy starts, his voice a bit softer.

'I know.' Murphy responds, cutting him off with wave of his hand as he kicks off a boot.

Bellamy gives him a small grateful nod and as their eyes lock briefly, Murphy finds himself wishing he could let go of the all anger and resentment he feels towards the other man; wishing he could just lower his guard and appreciate Bellamy's company while he can.

 

\--------------------------------

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a bit of physical contact! I put a lot of thought into the way I think Murphy would have reacted to the lynching if he'd been given a bit of time to cool down - say, after a little coma :D
> 
> If anything, Murphy always struck me as the kind of guy who, given a little time to reflect, would always pick the path least likely to result in his own demise. he's a survivor, he's proven that time and time again. So it seemed logical for him to try his very best to repress his emotions and bottle everything up instead of exploding right away, which is what I tried to convey here. 
> 
> Denial is not just a river as they say. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed it nonetheless :) things are going to speed up a bit after this (Raven landing, Octavia disappearing) so the next few chapters might have a bit more action than reflection as we build towards 'I am become death.' 
> 
> \-- because yeah, if I can promise one thing, it's that there will still be three days of torture and a full chapter of Typhoid!Murphy.


	8. Part 2: On a mission nowhere bound

# Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

 

###  Chapter 4: On a mission nowhere bound

 

 

The crack of dawn finds Bellamy still sauntering through the woods as the first timid rays of a rising sun filter through the canopy, casting long shadows onto the mossy ground at his feet. Wiping sweat from his brow, the dark-haired man pauses briefly to take a chug from his water canteen and make a mental note of the direction the sun is rising from. On any other day, he might have indulged in a small break to enjoy the chirping of the first birds after spending the past few hours walking in silence, but today that's a luxury he can't afford.

Fastening the canteen back onto his belt, the man prepares himself to resume his trek through the wilderness but before he can take a single step, a soft cracking sound alerts him to movement behind him and he finds himself wheeling around swiftly to confront the interloper with the cold metallic grip a handgun cradled into his palm...

Only to come face to face with a very apathetic looking John Murphy.

'Wow, easy tiger,' the boy chirps with an impish smile, raising his hands in mock surrender. 'I've had my share of near-death experiences this week, don't you think?'

Livid, Bellamy shoves the gun back into the back of his pants as he closes the distance between them in four long strides to grab a fistful of Murphy's jacket. Hands still raised and that sardonic smirk still firmly planted on his narrow face, Murphy looks up at him with something resembling amusement in his eyes.

'Or is this the perfect place to dispose of my body after you _accidentally_ shoot me?' he continues with an exaggerated wink. 'No one will _ever_ know.'

Shaking his head, Bellamy lets out a dramatic sigh, releasing his grip onto the boy's collar and giving him a gentler pat on the shoulder in lieu of both apology and greeting.

'Drats!' the freckled man concedes mockingly. 'My evil plan... foiled again.'

'Never took you for a cartoon fan, Blake.' Murphy laughs but it's a hollow sound, a mere shadow of the old Murphy's laughter and once again, Bellamy finds himself longing for what they had in those first few days; longing for the simple companionship, for the peaceful sleep that came with knowing someone had your back. Things had fallen into place so easily between them. He had needed a lieutenant and the abrasive boy had risen to the task eagerly, filling a hole inside the older Blake's chest; a hole Bellamy hadn't even known was there until he met Murphy.

It had been so easy to confess in him, so easy to take the boy aside that one morning as they strolled through the woods, on a day much like today; the words came out spilling and Murphy never once opened his mouth to judge or criticise. He'd just nodded.

_'Don't worry Bellamy,'_ he told the freckled Blake, a smug smile dancing on those pouty lips. _'I'll remove every single one of these wristbands myself if I have to.'_

Bellamy never once doubted he would...

'Last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid, you know?' Murphy sniggers after what feels like a small eternity, shoving his hands into his pockets nonchalantly as he sets off in the direction of the escape pod landing site.

'Oh, please.' the older man snorts, quickly recovering from his musings. 'You wouldn't find your way to _Pound Town_ if someone drew you a map.'

'And I'm sure you've visited often enough that the barmaid gave you a personalised loyalty card.' Murphy chuckles, looking back at him over his shoulder.

'That reminds me, I'm only a few stamps away from getting a complimentary threesome.' he retorts, grinning smugly. 'You _do_ know what a _threesome_ is, right?'

'Just so you know,' Murphy stops in his track and turns to give him a dramatically contrite look. 'I am trying _very_ hard not to point out how much time your sister has been spending with goggles and the pothead after dark. _Very_ hard.'

'You're a jackass.'

'Yeah, I get that a lot.'

 

\-----------------------------------

 

The sun is done rising and a thick fog is rolling down the mountains on the horizon by the time they reach the clearing where the pod landed. Blowing into his hands to warm his fingers through woolen cut-offs, Murphy strains to keep up with an increasingly surly Bellamy as they approach the capsule.

'I'll keep an eye out.' Murphy tells him, tapping him on the shoulder lightly to get his attention when they get there, noticing with a hint of dismay that the older man has not even taken the time to survey their surroundings. 'You just... get on with whatever it is you need to do.'

Bellamy simply nods at him and circles the pod to locate the hatch while Murphy turns back to the direction they came from to find himself an elevated vantage point. The cold morning air bites through his jacket and he soon finds himself rubbing his own arms vigorously with his hands to keep his core temperature up. It takes Bellamy another couple of minutes but he finally returns, a deep frown etched into that handsome freckled face and what looks like a huge walkie-talkie clutched in his hand.

'Anyone in there?' Murphy asks, wiping a sleeve across his nose and wincing when he realises it's running slightly.

_Sniffles...great, just great..._

Bellamy looks up at him from the radio in his hand, as if waking from a dream. He says nothing so Murphy doesn't press the matter and simply falls into step beside him as the older man takes off in the direction they arrived from. They walk silently for a little while until they reach the bank of a narrow river at which point Bellamy pauses to look down at the contraption in his hand again.

'You sure you want to destroy it?' Murphy asks him calmly, eyeing him with a measuring glance. 'We could hide it in one of the caves or--'

But before he can finish, Bellamy hurls the radio through the air and into the shallow waters, a look of relief passing over previously pinched features, only to be replaced by another deep scowl.

'Or you can just ignore me and do whatever the hell you want, you know.' Murphy sighs, shaking his head, but pauses when he notices that, for the first time since they got to the escape pod, Bellamy is looking straight at him.

Before he can let out another snarky comment, Bellamy plants a hand onto the crook of his neck to give the taut muscles there a firm squeeze. The man holds his gaze for a few moments longer then gives him another curt nod before setting off towards the woods again.

Murphy smiles as he realises that's probably as close to a 'thank you' as he'll ever get.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

Back at camp, a worried Octavia is scurrying out of the Dropship on her way to the medical tent when she catches a glimpse of a very tense John Mbege arguing with Nathan Miller from the corner of her eye. She spins on her heels and strolls over to them, reaching the boys just as Miller is turning to walk away.

'What was that all about?' she asks, trying to sound casual as she attempts to gauge the surly teen's disposition.

'Miller won't let me join the next hunting party because Connor's already on it.' Mbege responds darkly.

'Can't blame him.' she grins. 'I wouldn't let _me_ near Connor either if I was him.'

The lanky boy gives her a tight smile, turning his attention to her fully. She hasn't really seen him since his stand-off with Bellamy in the tent but she's heard Fox telling Clarke about another brawl between Mbege and a kid named 'Myles'. For the life of her, she cannot put a face of that Myles but she has no doubt he's one of the kids that had a hand in Murphy's hanging.

'Can I help you with something?' he asks, curiously.

'I'm looking for Bellamy.' she explains, her voice trailing of.

Mbege scoffs at that, all pretense of friendliness melting from his features.

'And you think I'd know where he is because...?'

'Well, I thought you'd know where Murphy is.' she continues with an absent wave of her hand. 'And since Murphy's like a bloodhound when it comes to my brother, I thought he might be able to help me track him down.'

The boy's expression suddenly goes from guarded to downright hostile and he turns away from her with a shrug, pushing his hands into his pockets.

'Can't help you, I'm afraid.' he grunts. 'Murph's been avoiding me like the plague ever since... what happened.'

'You think he blames you?' Octavia shakes her head, suddenly feeling a wave of sympathy towards the other teen. 'Murphy's having a hard time dealing with anyone right now but I'm sure he's not purposefully avoiding you.'

'He doesn't seem to be having a hard time dealing with you or your brother...' Mbege scoffs, his eyes hard and resentful as he meets her gaze.

When she finds nothing to say, the gawky kid gives another her another polite nod and departs, long legs carrying him away faster than Octavia could hope to follow him.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

Clarke catches up to them as they amble down a gentle slope in the forest on their way back to camp. The walk has been comfortably uneventful and Murphy estimated they would be back within the next half hour if they kept at this pace. But that was before that banshee of a woman caught a whiff of them on the midday breeze. Murphy can very easily picture her, diving through the sky with her crimson-feathered wings flapping angrily against the wind, her pale features distorted in rage and her plump red lips covered in froth as she foams at the mouth at the very thought of ripping through their chests with her sharp talons.

'Company.' he warns with an exasperated sigh, instinctively moving closer to the older man to present a united front as the blond nearly barrels into them from behind.

'Hey!' she shouts, and Murphy can almost picture the exaggerated pout crumpling her delicate features. 'Where is it?'

The boys look at it each other, feigning ignorance but neither one of them pauses until she circles around them to plant herself in their path with her hands on her hips.

'Hey, Princess.' Bellamy grins and Murphy rolls his eyes at the cheesy nickname. 'Just taking a walk in the woods?'

'They're getting ready to kill three hundred people up there! To save oxygen.' Clarke snaps, shaking with anger as she gives Bellamy's shoulder a hard shove. 'And I can guarantee it won't be council members.'

Murphy watches the exchange closely, taking his cue from Bellamy and keeping his expression neutral. He never knows how to handle Clarke and her self-righteous clique of acolytes; the girl is on a mission to paint the world in black and white but Murphy is only ever truly comfortable in shades of grey. One minute she would be waving a knife in his face, demanding justice; the next she would be dabbing at the wounds on his face with a wet cloth.

He was more than happy to let Bellamy deal with her.

'It will be working people, your people!' she continues, temper flaring as she pokes a finger into the older man's chest to punctuate each word.

Murphy take a slow step forward, forcing her to stand back to avoid collision but keeping his hands firmly at his sides to avoid a possible diplomatic incident.

'How about you don't do that, _princess_?' he says calmly.

Before she can respond, the sound of another set of angry footsteps reaches them from the hill behind them and Murphy turns around just in time to catch sight of the long haired teen stampeding towards the elder Blake sibling.

'Bellamy!' he hears Finn shout.

Without thinking, Murphy jumps in to interpose himself, fingernails digging into Finn's bare arms as he grabs the other kid and pushes him back roughly.

'Bellamy Blake?' a new girl - an athletic looking brunette with a long ponytail – smirks at them, skittering down the hill just behind Finn. 'They're looking everywhere for you.'

'Shut up.' Bellamy snaps.

Murphy briefly contemplate knocking the girl out to silence her before she can say something incriminating but before he can make up his mind, Clarke turns to her with a questioning look.

'Looking for him why?' the blond demands.

Unnerved, Murphy shifts closer to an increasingly tense Bellamy, quickly scanning the woods around them to find the best possible route back to camp should they need to make a quick dash for it. He turns his head and briefly meets the older man's eyes.

'He shot chancellor Jaha.'

 

\--------------------------------

 

'That's why you took the wristbands.' Clarke exclaims, incredulous. 'You needed everyone to think we're dead!'

'Ding-Ding-Ding, we've got a winner.' Murphy snorts next to him, clapping his hands in mock applause.

The boy's voice is calm as he takes half a step forward, placing himself slightly ahead of Bellamy to make sure he can intercept anyone before they get to him, and the older man winces slightly as he realises that, even after everything that went down between them, the boy is still willing to take a punch for him.

'You _knew_...' Clarke turns to the brown haired boy with a shocked look on her face. 'You knew he shot Well's dad.'

'Oh, don't be jealous, Princess.' Murphy mocks with a smug smile. 'I'm sure the Prince would have told you if he didn't think you'd be a bitch about it. Way to prove him wrong, by the way.'

Under different circumstances, Bellamy would have let the exchange drag on to enjoy Murphy's sharp tongue and scathing witticisms. But today neither one of them can afford to go around antagonising more people so he gives the boy's elbow a gentle squeeze, nodding sharply when Murphy cranes his neck to look back at him over his shoulder, then turns on his heels before setting off in the general direction of camp with the boy on his heels.

'Hey, shooter!' the new girl jogs after them, grabbing Bellamy by the shoulder as she catches up. 'Where's my radio?'

'Get out of my way.' Bellamy demands, feeling his own temper flaring, 'I should have killed you when I had the chance.'

'Really?' the brunette retorts and the older man fumes silently at how thoroughly unimpressed she looks. 'Well, I'm right here.'

Without thinking, Bellamy snaps and grabs the girl by the shoulders to back her up into the nearest tree. It all happens in the blink of an eye but the next two things he is aware of are that the girl now has a knife pointed at his face and that Murphy somehow managed to pull the handgun free from the back of his pants.

The boy's eyes are cold and hard as he presses the barrel of the gun to her temple, all trace of humour long gone from that battered face. They stand in silence for a couple of seconds and Bellamy lets a cocky smirk stretch his lips as he uses the hand on her neck to press her harder into the pine trunk and feels the girl's pulse racing under his thumb. She snarls and tries to push the knife closer to his face but freezes instantly when she hears the sound of the gun cocking.

'Are we all ready to take a chill now...?' Murphy asks in a detached voice. 'Come on people, it's not like Jaha didn't deserve to die anyway.'

The older Blake gives him a small nod, pushing himself off the girl to take a few steps back. Ponytail lowers the knife but Bellamy knows better than to take his eyes off her so he stands calmly in front of her, even as he feels the ice cold barrel of a gun being tucked back into the back of his pants and his skin erupts in goosebumps.

_Son of a..._

He shifts his gaze for a brief second to catch a glimpse of Murphy's smug grin and suddenly feels a near irresistible urge to back the other boy up into a tree to teach him some manners.

'Yeah but he didn't die.' the girl snaps, ignoring the exchange and Bellamy's eyes quickly dart back to her. 'You're a lousy shot.'

The older Blake freezes at that and his face falls as the words slowly sink in. It doesn't change anything, he knows. Instead of being executed for murder he would be jailed for life for _attempted_ murder. It made no difference but the tiny part of him that had rejoiced when he was presented with the opportunity to avenge his mother, to get retribution for the years of sequestration the chancellor had indirectly inflicted on his little sister, roared with indignation at the very thought of a living, _breathing_ , Thelonious Jaha setting foot on Earth.

'Well, that's fantastic!' Murphy cheers, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he gives Bellamy an exaggerated pat on the back. 'Neither one of us murdered a Jaha. Can we go home now? I'm freezing my nuts off out here.'

 

\---------------------------------------

 

'Why d'you tell them?'

Bellamy turns to him with a cocked eyebrow and Murphy wipes his nose into the sleeve of his jacket before he decides to extrapolate.

'Why would you tell them where to find the radio?' he asks, again, slower.

'I told them because it's too late anyway.' Bellamy responds with a sigh. 'The radio's dead.'

'And so are the three hundred workers Jaha's going to cull up there.' Murphy remarks, absently, but when he turns back to see why the other man stopped and finds Bellamy staring at him with wide eyes, he bites his lip viciously, thinking he's pushed too far this time.

To his surprise, Bellamy looks down suddenly, his shoulders sagging and his face blank. Had this happened two weeks ago, Murphy would have apologised hurriedly but today he just stares at the other boy, wincing as a small, vicious, part of him rejoices spitefully at the small retribution.

'I should have listened.' Bellamy frowns, looking up at him with those sorrowful eyes.

'Yeah, you should have.'

 

\--------------------------------

 

They stand together by the Dropship, shoulders bumping occasionally as they watch the flares, and neither one of them says anything for the longest time but Bellamy can almost feel the intensity of Murphy's stare on the side of his face.

They kept relatively silent on the way back to camp, Murphy only opening his mouth once or twice to warn Bellamy about a hole in the ground or a root to avoid. Bellamy would nod in acknowledgement and the silence would stretch between them once more. When they finally got back Bellamy paused at the gate to ask Miller to send a team over to the river to help Clarke and the others look for the radio, Murphy kicking the dust on the ground nervously behind him.

Now as they stand in the middle of camp with their eyes to the skies, Bellamy finally lets himself relax. He knows he should be panicking right now; knows the council would soon be sending down the guard. He's lost control of the situation and he knows he should feel powerless and angry but all he feels as is stands there is a wave of relief as he realises things are out of his hands for now. So he turns slowly to meet Murphy's searching gaze and gives him an easy smile, silently wondering if the blue-eyed boy will be behind him when he makes for the hills.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was a fun one but I'm having a real hard time with the next chapter.   
> I hope you guys are still having a good time reading this. Thanks for all the support!  
> I'm really touched :D


	9. Part 2: Supersize our tragedy

# Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

 

###  Chapter 5: Supersize our tragedy

 

 

'Have you seen Octavia?'

Murphy hears a crack in Bellamy's voice as the older man pokes his head though yet another tent to check for his sister. With everything that happened that day, they had eagerly returned to the Dropship after the last of the flares had been fired. Murphy had shrugged his jacket off, wincing at the sharp bolt of pain that shot through his side as he lowered himself down to his pile of blankets, and was halfway through unlacing his second boot when Bellamy's voice suddenly sliced through the silence.

_'I Haven't seen Octavia since this morning.'_

_'I'm sure she's just messing around with Jasper and Monty.'_ Murphy responded casually, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

For a while after that, the older man seemed to relax but just as Murphy had been about to lie down, he spoke again.

_'I'm just going to go make sure.'_

So here they are, walking from one tent to the next, asking a bunch of sleepy teenagers if they've seen Bellamy's sister. Murphy takes a second to adjust his gloves and zip up his jacket as a cold breeze blows over the camp, trying not to let his mind wander to the warm nest of blankets he left behind in the Dropship. When they get to Miller by the firepit, he quickly explains that Octavia took off after her brother when she realised he was gone. Murphy cringes at how pale the older Blake suddenly looks.

'Bell, I'm sure she's fine.' he tries again, blowing into his hands. 'She's probably spaced out somewhere looking at the stars. Or sliding down a rabbit hole to some magical place.'

Ignoring him, the older man grabs a torch from the camp fire and bellows to get everyone's attention. When a group of surprisingly alert looking delinquents has amassed around the firepit, the de facto leader addresses the crowd in a booming voice.

'My sister's been out there alone for the past twelve hours.' he starts, sweeping a determined glance over the group before letting his eyes settle on the sullen boy with the bruised neck. 'Arm up. We're not coming back without her.'

Murphy resists the urge to point out that they're more likely to stumble into a Grounder camp than they are to find his sister in the dark and snatches up a very savage looking mace from the pile of weapons Miller deposited at their feet. As his hand closes around the handle he notices a darker set of fingers reaching for the machete next to it and looks up to find Mbege staring at him morosely.

'You're looking better.' the other teen comments, his eyes intense and searching.

'And you're looking... like something crawled up your ass and died there.' Murphy teases with a mock grimace. 'Fortunately, that's my favourite look on you.'

Murphy can almost hear the ice breaking as the taller teen cracks the tiniest smile before shoving the Machete through his belt.

'Oh, so you  _do_ see me. I was beginning to wonder if we were still progressing on the same plane of existence.' Mbege retorts with a shrug.

'Does that make you feel more alive, dumbass?' Murphy sniggers as he punches the older boy in the arm jokingly.

Mbege shoves his hand in his pockets with another shrug, looking frankly unimpressed.

'You see that?' someone shouts behind them, interrupting the friendly banter.

They turn towards the kid in unison and let their eyes drift in the direction he's pointing at. In the sky above, hundreds of shooting stars are raining down towards the earth and save for a few gasps rising from the assembled teenagers, the camp has gone deadly quiet.

'It didn't work. They didn't see the flares.' the new girl, Raven, groans as she stomps over to the firepit.

'A meteor shower tells you that?' Bellamy asks gruffly.

Murphy looks around for the elder Blake, surprised to find the other man standing a mere few steps to his left with his hands on his hips and a deep frown on his face.

'It's not a meteor shower.' Clarke berates him sourly. 'It's a funeral.'

 

\--------------------------------

 

_This is all your fault!_

_He knows... now he has to live with it._

The words are still ringing in his ears, over and over, and Bellamy almost growls in frustration as he tries to focus on something – anything – else that the nauseating mixture of guilt and self-loathing that's twisting his stomach in a knot as they scurry through the woods.

_Hundreds of bodies being returned to the earth from the Ark...._

To add insult to injury, he has to watch Murphy exchanging pleasantries with one uncharacteristically happy looking John Mbege from the corner of his eye. Bellamy never took himself for a possessive man until he felt the cold tendrils of anger coiling around his gut at the sound of friendly banter behind him.

But now is neither the time nor the place to dwell on that.

'Less talking, more searching!' he snaps, throwing a foreboding glare over his shoulder and cringing slightly as he catches a glimpse of the dejected look on Murphy's battered face.

The boys remain silent after that but Bellamy can almost feel Mbege's murderous glare burning holes in the back of his head.

 

\----------------------------

 

'Hey,' Murphy greets quietly as he catches up to Bellamy a while later.

The older man gives him a quick nod but his eyes never leave the dark woodlands that spread before them. Murphy has no idea exactly how long they've been searching but the sky is still pitch black above their heads so he assumes they can't have been at it for more than a few hours. The silence is dense and oppressive around them but Bellamy seems completely unphased as he continues searching the darkness for any signs of his sister's passage.

'It's Octavia.' Murphy sighs, bumping his shoulder into the older man's tentatively to get his attention. 'She's a hardass, if anyone can survive a night in the forest, it's her.'

To the boy's surprise, Bellamy leans back into his shoulder for an instant and gives him a small grateful nod. Murphy wants to say more, wants to assure the older man that his sister will be back at camp before sunrise, pine needles stuck in her hair and a sheepish smile on that mischievous face. He would say anything to wipe the sickening mix of anxiety and despair off that handsome face. Instead, he bites his lip.

Because John Murphy is many things but he's not a liar.

'Look! Over here!'

 

\----------------------------------

 

Heart pounding in his ears, the older Blake comes to an abrupt stop next to Mbege as he reaches the cliff. A small part of him shrinks away from the edge instinctively, refusing to look down, refusing to face the sight that might greet his eyes in the pit below.

'What is it?' he asks in hoarse voice, catching his breath as the darker teen turns to look at him.

'Right there, you see it?' Mbege frowns, bringing a finger up and pointing at something down the slope to their left. 'Is that Octavia's?'

Bellamy's eyes are straining in the dark but he lets out a quiet grunt when he catches a glimpse of what the taller boy is pointing at. Caught in the tortuous branches of a shriveling shrub, the buckle of an overall belt shines weakly through the darkness as it catches the moonlight that's filtering through the trees behind them.

'It's a belt.' Murphy chirps in, shifting anxiously next to him. 'Someone pass me a rope. I'm going to go have a look.'

Bellamy's head whips around to him and he plants his hands firmly on his hips as he prepares to call the boy off sternly but before he can say anything, Murphy throws him a warning glance.

'I'm lighter than you.' he explains simply, grabbing the rope Monroe is handing to him and passing it around his waist. 'If something happens, I'll be easier to lift back up.'

The boy's lips are pressed in that tight line and his jaw is set; Bellamy knows that stubborn look so he nods reluctantly, settling for grabbing onto the other end of the rope but before his fingers can close around it, Murphy snatches it back sharply.

'Mbege's got it.' the boy says quickly – too quickly – as he shoves the rope into the taller teen's hand with a curt nod, and something in Bellamy's chest clenches tightly when he realises Murphy would rather rely on his surly friend to keep him from crashing down into the pit below them.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

Deep down, Mbege knows he shouldn't feel half as elated as he does when Murphy hands him the rope. He's not a petty man, not by a long shot, but after everything the elder Blake has put them through, he can't help but take a second to rejoice at the look of utter disappointment in those hazel eyes. Why Murphy can't see the older man for the manipulative arsehole he really is, Mbege has no idea, but he sure is glad to observe that his younger friend has not lost his senses to the point of trusting Blake with his life.

'Alright, lets get things moving.' Bellamy scowls, turning to hide the defeated look on his face.

Mbege furls the other end of the rope around his own waist and take a few steps back from the edge of the cliff, bending his knees to brace himself in preparation for the kid's descent.

'Ready when you are, Murph.'

The pale teen turns to nod at him over his shoulder and takes a confident step over the cliff, down onto the slope towards the glint of the belt buckle, leaving Mbege frowning anxiously as he loses sight of his friend. Bellamy's standing right by the cliff, bent over the edge to follow Murphy with nervous eyes, and Mbege arches an eyebrow as he takes in how tense the older man suddenly looks; how his hands are clenched, fingers curled tightly into the fabric of navy blue cargo pants, and how the man jumps slightly every time the rope gets taut.

_Well, I'll be damned..._

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Murphy knows... he knows before his hand even closes around the buckle but he snatches the belt up anyway.

'It's hers...' he groans, wincing at the implications.

He looks up to the top of the hill, trying to find Bellamy's face through the blinding beam of a flashlight, but the light shines too bright and he finds himself shrinking away from it.

'I'm going all the way down.' he calls out, shoving the belt into his pocket and wiping sweaty palms on his thighs before grabbing onto the rope once more.

'Murph, you're sure you're fine down there?' Bellamy's voice booms through the darkness.

'No, I'm being savagely mauled by a beast.' He snorts sarcastically, rolling his eyes. 'But it's cool, the thing made off with my arm. Should keep it busy for a while.'

'Fucking idiot...' Bellamy sigh, just loud enough for him to hear.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

He finds the boy crouching by a boulder, pale skin sucking in the beam of his flashlight in the dark. Shining the light a bit lower, Bellamy feels his stomach drop as he catches a glimpse of the dark blood smeared over the boy's ghastly pale fingers. Murphy looks at him, peering up through messy brown hair and, without thinking, the older man rushes to his side to look him over for injuries.

'Bellamy.' the boy swallows anxiously as a warm freckled hand gently wraps around his wrist. 'It's not mine.'

It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in but when they do, Bellamy feels the blood drain from his face. He can barely make out what the boy is saying to him over the thumping of his own pounding heart but the grimace he catches on the kid's bruised face is enough to tell him Murphy is thinking what he's thinking.

'I found it down here. There's not much of it.'

There's a loud thump to their right and Finn is suddenly crouching next to them. Bellamy takes a deep breath to steady himself before nodding towards the ground around the boulder.

'Someone else is here.' Bellamy comments in a low voice, meeting Finn's eyes briefly before waving towards the large footprint etched into the moist soil with a surprisingly steady hand.

Murphy is still crouching at his side silently, surveying the long haired teen with a caustic look on his face and Bellamy suddenly wonders if anyone ever bothered telling the kid that Spacewalker was the one to cut him down from the tree.

'The prints are deeper going that way.' Finn rasps.

'He was carrying her...'

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

'Well, isn't that just delightfully homely?' Murphy notes with a grim chuckle as the light of Bellamy's torch reveals the sinister parade of impaled skeletons lining the road ahead of them.

To either side of the group, corpses in various stages of decomposition are propped up grotesquely onto obnoxiously large spikes, the smell on the air so ripe Murphy can hardly blame the poor bastard gagging at the back of their procession.

'I don't speak Grounder,' Finn starts, giving Murphy a casual shrug. 'But I'm pretty sure this means keep out.'

In spite of the two's awkward attempt to lighten the mood, Murphy can hear some of the kids muttering in the back, a few of them already turning on their heels.

'Go back if you want.' Bellamy scowls to the kids behind them before giving Finn a pointed look. 'My sister, my responsibility.'

The older man doesn't wait to see if anyone is following him. He takes off with a stubborn frown on that freckled face.

'Why don't we ever go anywhere nice?' Murphy groans, pumping his legs to keep up with the older man. 'Like a peaceful meadow or a secluded little hut by the ocean.'

 

\----------------------------------

 

In the end, there's just a handful of delinquents left, Murphy and Bellamy walking in the front with Finn while the rest of the kids are sweeping the woods behind them.

'Jasper was right, you know?' Murphy comments next to him, hand on the mace tucked into his belt as he steps over a root. 'If she was dead, they would have either left the body or dragged it back. They wouldn't be carrying her.'

Bellamy says nothing. He just watches the woods in front of them transform with the first rays of sunlight; all that was grey just a few moments ago suddenly explodes in shades of green and the once blurry lines of tree trunks now stand out sharply against the horizon in the distance. Bellamy takes a deep breath, trying to still his trembling hands as he realises Octavia has been missing throughout the night. His heart sinks even deeper into his chest with Finn's next words.

'I got nothing.' the young man admits, finally. 'We lost the trail.'

'Some fucking tracker you are.' Murphy grunts from Bellamy's side but the older man doesn't have the strength to reprimand him.

'Keep looking.' he urges gruffly.

A bird takes off from behind them and comes flying low over their heads. Monroe pulls out her machete and braces herself to their left.

'Hey, where's John?'

Bellamy's eyes quickly dart to the battered boy next to him but Murphy just gives him a puzzled look. Then it dawns on them.

'Mbege!' Murphy calls out, eyes wide with worry as he whirls around to the back of the group where the darker teen had been bringing up the rear with Roma.

'I saw him a second ago.' Jasper moans, eyes wide with panic.

Bellamy tries to put a reassuring hand on Murphy's shoulder but the boy pushing away roughly as he takes off in the direction they came from, frantically searching the woods for his friend, leaving the older man cringing in sympathy behind him.

'Murph, he can't be far.'

A loud thumping noise breaks the silence behind them and the look of pure horror that contorts Murphy's face prompts Bellamy to wheel around to find Mbege's corpse sprawled out on the carpet of pine needles at their feet, blood still gushing from the the deep gash that runs across his throat. Murphy scurries over to him before Bellamy has time to gather his thoughts and the older man feels a cold fist clenching inside his gut as he watches the boy hunch over Mbege's lifeless body.

_Now he has to live with it._

'There. Right there.' Jasper whispers with a look of utter terror on his face as he points to one of the grounders circling them with the rod in his hand.

'We should run.'

Adrenaline already pumping through his veins, Bellamy leans over Murphy and grabs two fistfuls of the boy's jacket to force him up. The kid is shaken and his eyes look wider than Bellamy has ever seen them but he doesn't resists when Bellamy brings both hands up to cup his face.

'Murphy, I need you to run now.' Bellamy says firmly, meeting the kids red rimmed eyes with a steadfast gaze of his own, calloused fingers digging into the sides of his face. 'We need to get out of here.'

Murphy nods sharply, his eyes finally focusing on Bellamy as the older man turns to find that the rest of the kids already took off. Grunting in frustration, he lets go of the boy's face and clamps a hand firmly around his arm to pull him along as he breaks into a run.

 

\--------------------------------

 

'There she is.' Monroe exclaims in a low murmur. 'Roma.'

Murphy watches Bellamy stomp over to a large tree in front of them with numb eyes. He doesn't know how long or how far they ran and he's not entirely sure why they stopped until he spots the shoulder sticking out from behind the tree trunk. Diggs was dead and they took off after Roma...

Mbege is dead...

Murphy shakes himself violently, earning a concerned look from Jasper and turning sharply to glare at the spiky-haired teen before he even thinks to open his mouth.

'They're playing with us.' Finn growls from the front and Murphy feels anger rising in his chest as he follows the long-haired teen's gaze.

The grounders are still circling them, leather jackets flashing on the tree line, masked faces peering from behind trunks.

'They only came because of me.' he hears Bellamy's raspy voice rising above the sounds of footfall on mossy ground.

Murphy watches the older man raise a hand to shut Roma's eyes gently - almost tenderly – and he feels a cold shiver run down his spine as he realises he just left his best friend's body out to rot in the open. He gives his head another hard shake to clear his thoughts.

_Need to focus, need to get back to camp so I can bash Bellamy's fucking face in, need to bury Mbege..._

'They can kill us whenever they want.' Finn's raspy voice hums right behind him.

'Then they should get it over with!' Jasper finally snaps, his voice rising into a shriek as Finn rushes over to him. 'Come on!!!'

'Bellamy!' Monroe shouts, pointing to one of the grounders as the enormous man sprints over to them.

Before he realises what he's doing, Murphy's hand closes around the neck of the mace on his belt and he tucks it out. Planting himself next to the tiny girl, he lets out a savage cry, prompting Monroe to bellow some obscenities of her own.

'Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough, fuckers!' she howls, braided hair flapping wildly besides him.

The sound of a horn drowns out the symphony of shouts and battle cries and Murphy nearly breaks into a run to give chase when the grounder suddenly turns around. But Bellamy interposes himself quickly, gripping both of his shoulders and leaning into him to bar his route.

'That horn, what does it mean?'Jasper whines.

'Acid fog.'

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took a while. Business trip. I hate flying, I hate the train and I hate the frigging cold in the northern hemisphere. So that's all probably going to show in chapter 6 and 7.  
> As for this one - damn, that was hard. I haaaaate killing characters but sometimes it has to be done :/
> 
> All in all, not my favourite chapter (guess you could even call it a filler) but it had to be done. 
> 
> Hope you guys are still on board. I'm currently busy writing chapter 7 and proof reading chapter 6.


	10. Part 2: Take everything left from me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all the lovely people commented and left kudos - it warms my little heart to the core :D
> 
> special mention to blueparacosm and 117Neva117 - I'm absolutely thrilled to see how much you guys are enjoying this so I'm dedicating this chapter to you!

# Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

 

###  Chapter 6: Take everything left from me

 

 

They're lying prone on the ground, under the cover of an unpitched tent. Murphy's heart is still pounding in his chest and Bellamy's warm hand is still resting on the small of his back, radiating heat through his jacket.

When the loud blare of a horn suddenly ripped through the woods, the older man had rushed him into the safety of the tent, muttering something about _acid fog_ and the necessity to seek shelter. Bellamy had manoeuvred Murphy down onto his stomach then lowered himself nearly flush against his side, propped up on his elbow and slightly angled towards the boy to make space for Finn and the others.

The hand on his back is almost impossibly warm. Bellamy's breath is coming out in short puffs against his cheek as the older man cranes his neck to look at him, soft hazel eyes burning into the side of his face, but Murphy can't bring himself to meet that gaze. He's never learnt how to respond to sympathy; heaven knows there wasn't much room for that on the Ark. The heat radiating from Bellamy's body against his flank is making something twist and turn deep inside his chest – yet another reason he can't trust himself to look up at the elder Blake.

'How long are we supposed to wait?' Jasper asks in a croaky whisper from behind Bellamy's back.

Murphy watches the older man tilt his head back to look at the spiky-haired boy over his shoulder and almost wishes Bellamy would roll around to keep _Jasper_ grounded. He hates being treated like a liability, like a flight risk. Murphy knows that's exactly what the warm hand rubbing circles in the small of his back is all about. Bellamy wants to keep him steady, wants to keep him from bursting through the tent to go wage a war on a people they know nothing about.

Murphy doesn't need to be _grounded_. He needs to be left alone. He needs Bellamy Blake's fucking hand _off_ of him.

'Will this even work?' Monroe groans impatiently.

'We'll find out.' Finn hushes.

The silence stretches on for a while. Murphy feels Bellamy's intense stare settle onto him once more and bites his lip viciously to control the irresistible urge to roll the older man onto his back and choke the living daylight out of him. Something dark and twisted squirms around in the back of his mind at the very thought of his own pale hands curling around the man's tan neck, and he takes a deep, shaky breath to steady himself.

Oh if only Blake could know how it _feels_. How it feels to have the very breath stolen from you. How it feels to choke on your own drying tongue as the fucking noose contracts around your throat. How it feels to kick your feet helplessly into the void below, to the sound of applause and cheering from the crowd around you.

Murphy lets a pained grimace contort his contused face as the grim realisation slowly creeps up on him.

Oh, how he wants Bellamy to _feel_ what he _felt_...

 

\------------------------------------

 

'We'll find out.'

'No we won't.' Bellamy hisses suddenly, finally taking his eyes from the boy's clenching hands.

Murphy is still lying flat on his stomach next to him, eyes clamped shut and his tight jaw working against some invisible force. The older Blake can hardly bring himself to contemplate the boy's train of thought but he has no doubt it involves John Mbege's body lying abandoned in the woods and Bellamy's share of responsibility in the surly teen's demise. He doesn't need to think about this now. There will be plenty of time for self-flagellation later...

Not waiting for a response, he lifts the flap of their precarious shelter, takes a deep breath to still his nerves and pokes his head out. The air is crisp and there's no sign of the yellow fog outside. He cranes his neck to survey their surroundings and when he finds no signs of grounders in their direct vicinity, he pushes the cover back all the way to expose the other teens to the brisk morning air.

'There's no fog.' he comments in a raucous voice.

'Maybe it was a false alarm.' Finn adds tentatively.

Murphy shifts next to him. Bellamy only realises how close he'd been lying next to the pale boy when Murphy's body heat suddenly drifts away and a cold shiver slithers down the length of his stomach. Their eyes don't meet as the kid pushes himself off the ground, Bellamy's hand falling off his back limply. Murphy gets onto his knees and sweeps the woods around them with a scrutinising gaze.

'They're coming back.' he grunts, as he catches a glimpse of a leather clad man jumping over a fallen stump on the tree line in front of them.

'I think he's alone.' Jasper hushes, edging closer to the group.

'Now can we run?' Monroe groans, eyes darting nervously from one tree to another.

Bellamy takes another long look around, straining to find the rest of the grounder pack. When he's convinced the native is truly alone and has not been alerted to their presence yet, he nudges Murphy with his elbow, forcing the kid to look down from the foliage above them. He gives the boy a sharp nod and waits for Murphy's customary eye roll before turning to the others.

'He doesn't see us. We're going after him.' he translates, mostly for Finn's benefit.

'Then what? Kill him?'

'No. Catch him. Make him tell me where Octavia is. _Then_ kill him.'

 

\------------------------------------

 

Octavia's head snaps up from where it was resting against the cold, damp wall at the sound of approaching footsteps echoing through the corridor behind her. The cave is moist and scarcely lit through a crevice above her head but her eyes have long since adjusted to the darkness around her. She gives the chain that binds her narrow wrists to the wall in front of her another hard tug, hardly surprised to find the bolt does not budge any further than it did the first dozen times she's attempted to free herself. This is fine, she has a plan. Hands clutching around the hard rock she's managed to wrangle out of the hard compacted floor below her, she takes a deep breath as the grounder approaches from behind. The sound of heavy footsteps stops right behind her and she turns cautiously to find him crouching mere inches away from her, his painted face composed but those eerie black eyes burning with intensity as he looks down at her. Were this any other day, she would have happily conceded that the man was – for lack of a better word – a stud. But today she is chained to a fucking wall inside a moist, foul smelling cave and that mountain of a man is all that is standing between her and a freedom she's hardly had the chance to enjoy; the freedom she sought after her entire life.

So she clutches the rock tighter into her hand, squaring her jaw, and knocks it hard into that unnervingly calm face. The man sways on his knees as Octavia pushes herself off of hers to stand over him. As he reaches towards her with an open hand, fingers grazing lightly against the inside of her forearm, she strikes again. The native falls to the side limply and she catches a glimpse of gleaming metal on his wrist. She snatches the key from the woven wristband and turns back to the wall. Fumbling to push the key into the lock with trembling hands and berating herself everytime it slips to the side, she feels panic rising in her chest as she hears a door creaking open in the back of the room. The key finally finds its mark and she gives it a hard twist, rejoicing at the beautiful sound of the padlock releasing. She snatches the rock up again and turns to face the newcomers.

'Bellamy.' she moans as weary green eyes find soft black curls in the darkness.

'Octavia!'

In the blink of an eye, she's cradled against her brother's broad chest, feeling like she's found the safest place on earth. She wraps her own arms around his back tightly, burying her face into his shoulder, and squeezes with all her might while he tugs to get her on her feet. She looks up briefly and finds Jasper beaming at her with a stupidly happy grin planted on that squirrel face. Bellamy reluctantly releases his grip and she limps over to the spiky-haired boy, wrapping him in a warm embrace as her brother walks over to the corridor. From the corner of her eye she catches a glimpse of Murphy lurking by the entrance, shouting for Monroe to watch the door.

'We should go. Now!' she suddenly snaps as she remembers the grounder lying on the floor at her feet. 'Before he wakes up!'

'He's not going to wake up.' Bellamy growls, snatching a tall wooden lance that was propped up against the wall of the cave and stalking over the unconscious man on the floor.

'He didn't hurt me, let's just go!' she pleads, trying to hold him back.

'They started this.' he growls, shrugging her off and clutching the lance tighter into his hands.

Before he can reach the native, Finn crouches next to the limp body on the floor and lifts a hand to grab a horn from his belt. The boy frowns as he trails a thumb along the side of the instrument, trying to make sense of the symbols etched into the bone under the pad of his finger.

'A fog horn...'

Her world explodes into screams once again as the grounder rolls over on himself to plant a knife into Finn's chest. Octavia stands against the wall, her mouth agape and her eyes wide, with Jasper suddenly planted beside her to hold her back as the man on the ground kicks Bellamy's legs out from under him. Her brother hits the ground hard but recovers quickly, springing back to his feet with the lance firmly planted in his hands, so she takes the opportunity to push Jasper to the side and limp over to where Finn is lying sprawled onto the dusty floor. Bellamy lunges over to the grounder, using the lance to push the man back and the two wrestle for what feels like an eternity to Octavia.

'Bellamy, no!'

She watches in horror as the man-beast forcefully snatches the lance from Bellamy's hands and turns it around on him. The two of them fall to the ground, with the leather clad native straddling her brother's waist, and the much heavier man bears into him with the lance, trying to run it through Bellamy's freckled face. She hears a fierce growl to her right and her lips tremble in anticipation as she watches Murphy barrel past them, teeth barred and messy hair flapping around his face, to shoulder barge into the mountain of muscle from the side. Jasper winces next to her as the boy's head connects with the grounder's jaw with a loud thud but neither one of them seems to take notice as they tumble to the floor.

'Shit.' she hears Bellamy rasp as he struggles to roll onto his side and realises that her brother's skull must have connected with the ground a lot harder than she initially thought.

Murphy puts up a fierce fight, roaring savagely with every punch he manages to land into the much larger man's face, but before long, the grounder's fist collides with the side of his head, knocking the kid back long enough for the native to roll them over in one swift motion.

'Murphy!' Bellamy growls, finally managing to pull himself onto his feet only to fall back down onto a knee, holding his head.

'Please!' Octavia pleads, trying to reach out to the grounder. 'Please, he's my _friend_! Don't kill him!'

But the native won't relent, powerful fists pumping into the lanky boy below him, reopening wounds that never got the chance to heal - on his face, on his ribs - and Octavia howls in anger as she watches the boy's head roll to the side. Murphy spits out a mouthful of dark, sticky blood and turns back to the grounder, his hands straining to find purchase, nails scratching at exposed skin in a desperate attempt to reach something vital.

Another loud thump echoes through the cave and Octavia looks up to see the grounder suddenly collapse onto the smaller man. Jasper is standing behind them, clutching a crowbar into his trembling hands. Murphy lets out a painful groan as he tries to writhe from beneath the senseless mountain of muscles while the spiky-haired boy just stands above them with a deeply perplexed look on his face. Bellamy finally makes it to them, sweat plastering curly-hair onto his temples as he kneels down by the brown haired boy to help him roll the unconscious native off before fisting both of his hands into Murphy's jacket and hoisting him up into a rough embrace.

'--m fine, Bell.' Murphy groans against his shoulder, making a half-hearted attempt to push the other man off only to have Bellamy tighten his arms around him with a grunt. 'I'm alright.'

'Like hell you fucking are.' Octavia growls, stomping over to them and crouching next to her brother. 'You look like you picked a fight with a fucking blender.'

'Guess who won...' Murphy groans, wiping a bloody nose into Bellamy's shoulder.

Octavia gently pries her brother off the lanky kid so she can look him over, wincing at the angry gash under the boy's left eye. The older man reluctantly lets go and she almost regrets her interference when she catches the chagrined look on that sun-kissed face.

'So I hear we're _friends_ , huh.' Murphy scoffs, wiping more blood from his mouth into the sleeve of his own jacket. 'Don't you think things are moving too quickly? Shouldn't you be taking me out to diner first?'

She wants to laugh but something in Bellamy's intense stare makes her resist the urge. Murphy's face looks hollow and there's no humour in his eyes. She follows his stormy gaze to Bellamy's contrite grimace and scrunches her nose as the happiness of their reunion quickly fades into awkward tension.

'Murphy.' Bellamy tries, grabbing for Murphy's elbow with a blood smeared hand.

'I told you I'm fucking _fine_ , Blake!' Murphy snarls viciously, pushing the other man off forcefully and hopping onto his feet to put some distance between them. 'I'm fucking fine, unlike Mbege. And unlike fucking Finn bleeding his ass out over there. So pull your head out of your fucking ass and help me carry him back to camp before he keels over. 'cause with my fucking luck, Clarke is going to take one look at another dead boyfriend and find some way to pin it on me.'

They all stare at him in the shocked silence that follows the tirade. Jasper sways on his feet nervously behind them, turning the crowbar into his sweaty hands and gawking at the boy like he's expecting him to snatch his mace from the floor and club them all to death.

'I hate to admit it.' Finn grunts, his face worn and ashen. 'But I _could_ really use some medical attention... right about _now_.'

 

\-----------------------------

 

They bring Finn back. Bellamy is cradling the long-haired teen's back against his chest and Murphy's arms are hooked under the boy's knees on either side of his hips. The two hobble through the gate silently while Jasper shouts for Clarke who rushes over as soon as she catches sight of them, mumbling frantically, a look of pure horror contorting her delicate features. The blond presses her fingers to Finn's neck to find his pulse and lets out a heavy sigh of relief.

'He's alive!' she shouts, suddenly turning to Raven. The two share an intense look and Bellamy feels the urge to dump the boy onto them without further ado. The weight repartition suddenly shifts towards him and he stumbles to keep an unconscious Finn from tumbling to the ground as Murphy sways to the side slightly. The boy looks pale and worn, his bloody face angled down as he struggles to retain his grip onto Finn's legs.

'Take him to the Dropship. Now! Go!' Clarke instructs commandingly.

The weight is suddenly lifted from his arms as a group of delinquents proceeds to remove the senseless boy from their grip. Murphy staggers back a bit, his face suddenly more green than ash, and Bellamy quickly closes the distance between them, propping his hand against the small of his back to steady the boy on his feet.

'Let's get you some water.'

He's about to drag the kid towards the medical tent when he catches a glimpse of Octavia wobbling towards the gate, her face bloody and her hair in disarray.

'Hey! Hey!' He growls, Murphy slumping against his shoulder.

He gives the boy another contrite look and firmly props him up against the wall before marching over to her. Octavia turns to him, her eyes haggard as they lift to his face.

'Why the hell were you defending him?' he demands.

'Because,' she starts, almost tentatively. 'he saved my life. That spear that hit Roma was actually meant--'

'No, you're wrong.' Bellamy's voice booms through air. ' _I_ saved your life.'

Murphy scoffs sardonically from where he's slouching by the wall but there's no need for words. Bellamy knows exactly what the boy is thinking.

_'You sacrificed three lives to save one.'_ a little voice chirps up from the darkest recesses of his mind. _'The way things are going with Finn, it might soon be four against one.'_

Bellamy cringes at how much like Murphy that little voice sounds but he presses on, because if the grounder saved Octavia then what the hell did Diggs, Roma and Mbege die for?

_'Nothing... they died because you'd be willing to sacrifice anything – anyone – to save your sister. To save_ yourself _.'_

'For all you know he was keeping you alive to use you as bait for one of their traps.' he adds, face twisted in a stubborn scowl while Octavia just shakes her head.

'No, I don't think so.' she reasons with him, her voice surprisingly soft.

Bellamy wants to shake her, wants her to understand that the grounders _killed_ their friends. That the man that was keeping her locked up in a cave nearly killed Finn, nearly killed _Murphy_... he wants her to see how much they lost, how much _more_ they could have lost.

How much _he_ could have lost.

'You don't _think_ , O!' he snaps furiously, a small part of him reeling at the look of shock and disappointment on that beloved face. 'That's the problem. They killed three of our people today. And if you had let me kill him when I had the chance, Finn wouldn't be in there dying right now.'

 

\-------------------------------------

 

Murphy watches the exchange silently, never taking his eyes off the siblings as they seethe and hiss into each other's face. He wants to roll his eyes at how naïve Octavia sounds, wants to tell Bellamy he sees right through his charade. But he keeps his lips tightly shut and watches intently as Bellamy writhes under Octavia's burning gaze, bending over backwards to justify every deed, every _death;_ pinning it all on her, the way they'd pinned Well's murder on him. He's not rejoicing because someone finally shares his burden; the burden of being blamed for something preposterous, the burden of Bellamy Blake's disappointed eyes. No, it's really more about the pattern... the fearless leader lashing out at the world, pushing the blame onto everyone but himself so he doesn't have to cope with the weight of it all.

Murphy rolls his eyes. They call _him_ a coward...

'Stop blaming me for your mistakes!' Octavia all but howls at her brother. 'What happened to Finn is not _my_ fault. I _wanted_ to leave. So if Finn dies in there, that's on _you_.'

He knows its hideous, he knows he's being petty and vicious. He knows he should say something to interrupt the quarrel before it escalates but the small, twisted part of him that wants to see Bellamy suffer for everything he's done trembles in anticipation. He's too tired to push it down, too weary to acknowledge the much larger part of him that wants to protect; the part that's _dying_ to interpose itself and take the fall so Bellamy doesn't have to.

Because that's what the older man keeps him around for. Because that's what Murphy's _good_ at.

'Everything that's gone wrong is because of _you_.' she continues and the brown-haired boy watches as Bellamy physically recoils from the vicious verbal attack. 'You got _me_ locked up on the Ark! You wanted me to go to that _stupid_ dance! You got _mom_ killed!'

_You killed your father..._

That one hits home and Murphy finally straightens up, as if waking from a trance when he hears his own dead mother's words leave the petite woman's mouth... He opens his mouth to says something, pushing off the wall angrily and taking a step towards the siblings, but Bellamy beats him to it.

'Mom was floated for having _you_.' the older Blake responds with a hollow smile. 'She's _dead_ because _you're_ alive. That was _her_ choice. I didn't have a choice. My life ended the day you were born.'

Octavia's face falls apart, she's still snarling but her eyes are glazed with tears as she stares up at her brother. She opens her mouth to say something but no words come out so she shakes her head and wheels around, making for the gate again.

'Where do you think you're going?' Bellamy snaps, snatching her arm into a forceful grip to hold her back.

'You can't keep me locked up in here forever...'

With that, she pulls her arm free and storms off towards the Dropship, leaving the other Blake glowering in her wake. For a while, Bellamy just stands there, sullen eyes following her retreating figure as it disappears into the aircraft. The sky is dark and angry above their heads and Murphy finds it very fitting somehow. It matches Bellamy Blake's aura as the man finally turns back to him.

'The next few words out of your mouth better not be _'I'm fine'_...' Bellamy growls, planting a firm hand onto the small of his back and gently guiding him towards the medical tent.

Murphy keeps his mouth shut and allows the older man to pull him along as the first crack of thunder rips through the eerie silence behind them.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing action is a bit hard for me but this was a good exercise. I also enjoyed describing the tent scene.  
> The next chapter will have a bit more fluff (sortof).


	11. Part 2: At the dead end I begin

# Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

 

###  Chapter 7: At the dead end I begin 

 

 

 

'She gave as good as she got.' Murphy says after a while, pressing a thumb to his lower lip to survey the damage there while Bellamy retrieves a cloth and basin from one of the crates under the table.

The boy doesn't elaborate but Bellamy takes some comfort in the simple words.

They had made it to the medical tent that was erected directly adjacent to the Dropship just as the first gusts of wind ripped through the camp and Bellamy had rushed back to close the flaps when rain started pouring outside. Murphy had watched, standing by the table awkwardly, until Bellamy called out to him.

'Sit on that crate and take off your jacket.' the older man instructs, filling the basin with water before turning back to the boy.

Murphy complies silently, grimacing at the searing pain that shoots through overused muscles as he lowers himself onto the plastic trunk. He shrugs his jacket off, one shoulder at a time, and chucks it into a corner while Bellamy sets the basin and cloth down onto the table. The older man turns around, quickly locating another crate, and walks over to pick it up and set it down right in front of the weary looking boy.

'You haven't eaten since last night.' Bellamy scowls as he sits down onto the second crate and reaches over to grab the bowl of rain water from the table.

'Neither have you, smartass.' Murphy mumbles, scratching his nose into the back of his wrist.

Bellamy lets out an exasperated sigh, briefly wringing the cloth before he brings it up to the boy's face. He gently dabs at the gash that splits the skin on a pale cheekbone with a corner of the damp wipe while Murphy absently plays with a loose piece of thread on the seam of his pants. The boy is looking down, worrying a bruised lower lip with his teeth. Bellamy can't repress a twinge of sympathy as he takes in how utterly exhausted the kid looks; his eyes sunken and hollow, a blend of bruises and fatigue tinting the paper thin skin of his eyelids a dark purple hue.

Bellamy rinses the cloth and wrings it again, watching the liquid turn a murky red from the mixture of dusts, mud and blood he removed from the boy's cheek, absently noting that at the rate they've been going, Murphy will have them out of water within a week.

'I hope someone put out the water drums before the rain started pouring.' he comments.

He loses himself in the repetitive motions, rinsing the cloth, wringing it and then rubbing the wet fabric over the boy's skin. At some point, his free hands finds its way up to that pale face and he cups the kid's jaw into his palm to tilt his head up so he can get more access. He's not entirely sure when it happened but he suddenly realises he's perched onto the edge of his crate, leaning so close to Murphy that he can feel the heat radiating from the other boy's body; so close that he can see the kid's soft brown hair flutter with his every breath. Bellamy looks down at his hands, rinsing the cloth again and when he looks up, the boy is finally looking at him, moist eyes bearing into his very soul.

The older man says nothing. He just brings a hand back up to Murphy's face to brush his blood-matted hair back so he can rub dried mud and dust from his brow and forehead with the cloth. It's easy to ignore the boy's searching eyes while he has something to occupy his hands but the minutes pass, and Murphy's face already looked passably clean two rinses ago. So Bellamy swallows against the lump in his throat and shifts his attention down to the boy's hands, gently tugging at the woollen cut-offs to remove them and wincing in sympathy at the little gasp of pain Murphy lets out when the wool is torn from the half-healed scabs on his knuckles.

Bellamy grabs both of the boy's battered hands into his own to survey the damage, turning them over gently to look at the grazed skin on his palms. He starts with the left hand, gently placing it onto his thigh while he wrings the cloth again then picking it up gently to rub the cloth over the scabby knuckles. He's hunched over so low he can feel Murphy's warm breath coming out in short puffs against his forehead.

'I need to bury him.' comes the tiny, cracked voice.

Startled by the sudden sound, Bellamy looks up to meet the boy's glazed eyes. Murphy's face looks even more ashen somehow now that it is clean and the deep purple bruise on his jawline accentuates the tightness Bellamy senses in the other boy's posture. The older man nods quietly, forcing himself to ignore the slight trembling of the boy's lower lip, and brings up the cloth to wipe the moist trail that runs down a pale cheek.

'We'll go back when we're done with the grounder.' he says after what feels like a small eternity, looking back down to his lap as he resumes cleaning the back of Murphy's hand.

Only silence answers him.

 

\------------------------------

 

The storm is raging outside, rain is dripping inside the tent through a tear in the fabric above their heads and the wind is blowing hard enough to shift the whole structure to the side with every gust.

Murphy doesn't protest when Bellamy hurriedly puts the bowl and cloth aside to smear poultice over the wounds on his hands, cheeks and neck. His face feels cleaner than it has in weeks and he's secretly grateful he didn't have to remove the gloves from his torn up hands himself.

'The storm is only going to get worse.' Bellamy groans, craning his neck to stretch taut muscles as he stands back to survey his handy work. 'We need to go get the grounder.'

'Or we could just go to the Dropship to find out how Finn's doing.' Murphy adds, scrunching his nose as he gives the poultice on his knuckles a quick sniff.

'We need to get the grounder back here. He has information we need. Information that could give us an edge.'

 _Aka, he put his dirty grounder paws on your little sister and that's a punishable offence,_ Murphy thinks to himself with a sly smirk.

Their knees bump awkwardly when they both try to get up at the same time and Murphy nearly tumbles backwards as Bellamy's head comes flying past his face. The older man gently grabs his elbow to steady him. Their eyes meet again and Murphy hates how warm his face suddenly feels as they stand so close together, their chest almost touching. So he clears his throat and takes a quick step sideways to get out of Bellamy's way as the larger man turns to retrieve the jacket Murphy had thrown into a corner.

'Here.' the older Blake says in a gruff voice, pushing the jacket into his chest.

Murphy mutters a quick 'thanks' and shrugs the jacket on before following in Bellamy's wake towards the exit.

 

\-------------------------------

 

'He's so fucking heavy...' Murphy groans, adjusting his grip onto the grounder's arm.

They've been dragging the native's limp body for a little over an hour by Bellamy's estimation, although it's hard to say with the storm raging around them. He looks over to the kid and notes that Murphy's now soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his face and poultice leaving a dirty trail down his cheek from where the older man had applied it to the gash under his eye. Bellamy feels the grounder's body sag again as the boy staggers and as they continue dragging him through the woods, arms hoisted under his armpits, he realises he's been pushing the boy too far. Murphy can barely walk and he's visibly straining under his share of the native's weight.

'We're almost there.' Bellamy offers, wiping rain and sweat from his brow and brushing wet curly hair out of his eyes.

Murphy just gives him another grunt and pinches his lips, pushing hard to help Bellamy hoist the grounder over a root and swearing colourfully as he nearly stumbles over his own feet.

'I swear to god, this better be worth it, Bell...'

 

\--------------------------------

 

He's freezing to death. They made it back to the Dropship and Murphy thought that would be the end of the cold, but he's still freezing. His hair is dripping and his clothes are soaked, his t-shirt sticking to his chest as he fumbles to take his jacket off but his hands shaking so hard he barely manages to pull down the zip.

They dropped the grounder onto the metal floor the moment they passed the door, Murphy staggering on his feet and Bellamy shouldering most of the weight through the last few meters. The older man turned to face Octavia as she came down the ladder, exceeded.

'The hell are you doing?' she seethed, marching over to them.

'Getting some answers.' Bellamy responded in that habitual gruff voice.

The two went on and, at some point, Clarke got involved, but Murphy frankly couldn't be arsed paying attention to what they were saying, hardly even hearing them over the clattering of his own teeth as he slouched against a wall, rubbing his arms vigorously. Miller and Derek eventually dragged the grounder up the ladder and into the second floor while Bellamy turned to grab a loose piece of dry parachute fabric before walking over to Murphy.

'How the hell did you manage to get wetter than I did?' the older man grunts as he pushes him towards the ladder.

'Well, we all _knew_ everything just rolls off Bellamy Blake's back.' Murphy smirks as he pushes himself up the ladder, cringing as slippery wet hands slide across the steps. 'Apparently that even includes the fucking rain.'

 

\--------------------------------------

 

'You're an asshole.'

Murphy had been quiet for a little while, leaving Bellamy wondering if he'd just spaced out or if he was silently plotting the older Blake's demise. The freckled man had marched them over to a quiet corner of the second floor so they could dry off and catch their breath while Miller and Derek took care of the grounder.

'Making us go after that stupid punk while it's pissing rain outside.' the boy continues in low voice.

Standing behind the smaller kid, Bellamy firmly pulls damp brown locks out of Murphy's face with his free hand to continue rubbing the boy's soaked hair with the parachute off cut. The slender boy doesn't resist, sagging back against the older man's legs as he fumbles blindly to take his shoes off.

'If we'd waited, he would have woken up.' Bellamy sighs, calmly bringing the improvised towel down to pat the back of Murphy's neck dry. 'Besides, I told you I'd wash your hair.'

Murphy cocks an eyebrow and cranes his neck backwards to look up at him, visibly perplexed.

'You were asleep.' Bellamy explains, quickly. 'Doesn't make a promise any less binding.'

'Hnn, I see. So you're not just an asshole,' Murphy grunts, snatching the towel out of Bellamy's hands to press it down against the front of his t-shirt in a vain attempt to soak up some of the moisture. 'You're a crazy asshole.'

 

\--------------------------------

 

'My shirt's drier than yours.' Bellamy comments behind him.

Murphy rolls his eyes, for his own benefit since he's sitting on the floor with his back turned to the other man.

'I thought we'd already established you're a fucking wizard and rain glides off you like water off a duck's back.' Murphy scoffs. 'Wait, that doesn't work. Rain _is_ water, that's a stupid analogy.'

He hears shuffling and the hissing of creasing fabric behind him and before he can add anything else, something soft and blue drops onto his lap. Murphy grimaces as he picks it up gingerly and realises what it is.

'I'm not wearing you fucking shirt, Blake.' he hisses sharply.

'It's dry and you're freezing.' Bellamy scolds behind him.

Murphy pushes off the floor and turns on his heels to glare at the older man, hell bent on throwing the shirt back at him. But Bellamy is just standing there, eyebrow cocked and hands on his hips. The boy swallows against the lump in his throat, clutching the bundle of cotton between his hands as his eyes linger on the older man's broad chest and toned stomach for a second too long.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

'You're just going to keep both?' Bellamy asks, cracking a small smile when Murphy's eyes hurriedly drift back up to his face. 'Give me your shirt...'

'Fuck you...' Murphy growls, looking down at the floor as he shoves the bundle of blue cotton between his knees to free his hands.

The boy swiftly pulls his own shirt over his head and rolls it into a tight bundle to throw it his way. Bellamy catches it without breaking eye contact before letting his eyes drift down to the boy's pale chest. His eyes linger for a second longer than strictly necessary and he winces in sympathy at the maze of scratches and bruises along the boy's sides, some of them fresh, some of them old. All of them look painful. There's something he can't quite place on Murphy's face as their eyes meet once more and if Bellamy didn't know any better he'd swear he saw the hint of a smile on that hard, battered face. But he's tired and his eyes are playing tricks on him so he quickly tugs Murphy's shirt over his head and pushes back a wave of disappointment when he looks up to see the boy has done the same.

'Well, that was awkward.' Murphy scoffs, cutting through the tension in the room as he wipes his nose into the back of his wrist.

A muffled shout reaches them from the bottom floor of the Dropship, providing the perfect distraction.

'Everyone upstairs, now!' Raven howls.

 

\------------------------------------

 

When Miller is finally satisfied with the way they've managed to string the grounder up, he sends Derek over to report to Bellamy. The shaggy-haired ginger kid walks up to the older Blake with a lopsided grin on his face while Nathan steps back to survey his handwork. The grounder is hanging limply from the leather straps fastened around his wrists, tribal tattoos accentuating the bulging muscles on his arms, and his close shaven head is drooping low, his chin pushed into his own chest. Nathan wasn't there to see the brawny man in action but he has no doubt whoever somehow managed to split the man's lip is probably much worse off. As if on cue, Murphy lets out a violent sneeze on the other side of the room.

'He's all set, boss.' Derek smirks as he reaches Bellamy, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb. 'You wanna do the honours?'

Miller watches as Bellamy quickly consorts with the ghastly looking boy sitting by the wall next to him. Murphy shrugs and turns to snatch his boots off the floor while the curly-haired Blake walks over to Nathan. Miller gives him a sharp nod in lieu of greeting and throws a curious look over to Murphy as the boy descend through the trap that leads down to the first floor. The kid's looking tired – scratch that, he's looking positively drained – and Nathan frowns as he spots some fresh bruises and scratches on those pales cheeks through the curtain of wet brown hair that's masking half of the boy's face. But what really catches Miller's attention is the soft blue cottoned shirt hugging Murphy's lanky chest loosely. The colour is less harsh that what he's used to on the boy, making Murphy look less... stern somehow.

'Nice shirt, Murph!' Nathan calls out after him with a small teasing smirk, shrugging innocently when Bellamy cocks an eyebrow at him.

'Let's get to work shall we?' the older Blake huffs, snatching up the dagger they removed from the grounder's belt and walking over the the unconscious man. 'Murphy's going to get us some light. We might be here a while.'

'How's he coping?' Nathan asks, trying to sound casual.

Bellamy's face goes from impatient to downright grim and Nathan's frown deepens as he watches the older man clutch the handle of the dagger harder in the palm of his hand, brown eyes glued to the the grounder in front of him. Miller looks into that freckled face, peering under the scowl and taking in how tense their fearless leader looks as he contemplates the question.

'He's fine.' Bellamy says, eventually, his tone clipped and final.

Miller takes the hint, turning his attention back to the knife in his own hand. Murphy isn't a friend per say but they'd been on good terms on the Ark. The boy hardly ever tolerated anyone else than Mbege but he'd never been outspokenly hostile towards Nathan which was, according to the other John, quite a feat.

Well, he'd never been outspokenly hostile to Nathan _in front_ of Mbege.

If Miller was perfectly honest with himself, he'd concede he and the brown-haired boy had been on a little bit more than good terms, if only for a while. That little savage of a man had stormed through Nathan's life like a hurricane, leaving a mess of torn up shirts and guilt in his wake.

Bellamy and Miller both look up when the grounder finally stirs. The freckled man gestures for Derek and Drew to come closer.

'Make sure the straps are tight.' he scolds, turning to watch Murphy climb back up into the second level with the handle of a halogen lamp clutched between his teeth.

Miller sees the older man's posture relax as the boy returns, sees the way Bellamy eyes follow him across the room. Once he's up onto his feet and his hands are free, Murphy takes the lamp out of his mouth and switches it on before propping it on one of the crates decorating the room.

'Tighter. Tighter!' The older man growls when the grounder gives his restraints a hard tug. 'Last thing we need is this bastard getting free because you screwed up.'

Miller quickly walks over to Drew and pushes the smaller boy aside firmly to check the straps himself, wincing at the harsh edge in Bellamy's voice. He is pulling the knot tighter around the grounder's wrist when the mountain of a man suddenly tenses up and springs forward, knocking both Miller and Derek back.

'He's a feisty bastard, that one.' Murphy snorts, squeezing past Drew to help Miller get a hold on of the native's arm.

Miller gives the boy a quick nod as they finish securing the straps onto the man's wrist. They haven't spoken much since the Skybox, he realises, but he's kept a watchful eye on the kid from a distance - out of curiosity, he tells himself - and he'd been pretty happy to see Murphy opening up to the older Blake. Miller is a practical kind of guy – the kind of guy who doesn't like to dwell on things; the kind of guy who would rather remember the good times fondly.

Still, that doesn't mean he wants to be anywhere in the vicinity of these two when Murphy inevitably explodes.

 

\-------------------------------------------

 

'This isn't about you.' Bellamy tells Octavia in a calmer voice. 'I'm doing this for all of us. I'm doing this for Finn and Jasper and Diggs and John and Roma.'

Murphy listens to the siblings arguing over the grounder from the back of the room where he's standing between Derek and Miller. His arms are crossed tightly across his chest and his eyes are riveted towards the floor but he can still feel Nathan's concerned gaze at the mention of Mbege. Murphy resists the urge to roll his eyes.

'Knock it off, Miller.' He grunts under his breath, not bothering to elaborate but taking a small amount of satisfaction in the way the older teen scoots a bit further from him.

He didn't especially relish spending time around the older boy. Miller was... a bit of delicate subject for him; a living, breathing reminder of a time of his life he'd rather not think back to.

'It wasn't even him.' Octavia protests vehemently, unaware of the quiet exchange in the back of the room, narrow features pinched as she waves her hands at Bellamy.

'You don't _know_ that.' Bellamy growls. 'We need to know what we're up against. How many they are and why they are killing us. And he's gonna tell us right now.'

Murphy takes a few steps forward, anticipating an upcoming outburst between the siblings, and reaches Octavia just as she leans over to grab her brother's arm.

'Murphy!' Bellamy bellows, pulling back from the petite brunette and giving the pale kid a pointed look. 'Get her out of here.'

The brown-haired boy places a hand on Octavia's shoulder and angles her back towards the trapdoor with a mild tug. She wheels around to him, white teeth barred savagely and her eyes wild and unyielding. Murphy wants to smile, because he sees so much of his own inner turmoil in her, so much of the scorching rage that animates him. He wants to lash out the way she does, he's _dying_ to hurt the older Blake the way only _she_ can. Yet, this tame little voice always rings through the cacophony of feelings and impulsions that battle through his mind, reminding him he's already threading on ice, reminding him that Bellamy Blake might very well be the only thing standing between him and another lynching. That little voice transcends the burning desire for retribution, coaxes him into a semblance of docility so he can slither back into a position of power, so he can coil himself into that warm spot he'd found by Bellamy's side. The faithful lieutenant, the obedient sidekick... the survivor.

He'll keep the demons tame, writhing under the surface, for as long as he can...

_Because that's how you survive. Because that's how you live to fight another day._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit more fluff here and more reasons to be mad at Bell :D  
> And Murphy finally gets a semi wash-up. Not the bubble bath we were all waiting for but it will have to do for now.  
> Been a bit busy at work so haven't had time to proof next chapter yet but I'll try to in the next 2 days :)


	12. Part 2: Disarm you with a smile

# Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

 

###  Chapter 8: Disarm you with a smile

 

 

The hull of the Dropship creaks with every gale, making the hair on the back of Bellamy's neck stand on end as he paces nervously down the length of the room, dishevelled curls poking out in every direction, sullen brown eyes darting around the room wildly. Murphy climbs back into the second level just as another violent gust of wind shakes the grounded aircraft.

'What the hell was that?' Bellamy snaps, stomping over the the brown-haired boy as he hoists himself up into the room. 'Are we under attack or not?'

Miller watches the larger man attentively, as he has been for the past ten minutes since Octavia and Murphy left the room. Bellamy had declined Derek's offer to resume with the interrogation, shaking his head decisively but providing no explanation so Miller had silently surmised that the older man was determined to wait until Murphy was back. Bellamy's intent to re-establish the slender boy as his right-hand man had not escaped either his or the rest of the militia's notice. Miller didn't mind it much; Murphy was a foul tempered little bastard but he got things done. Drew had hinted he would rather have Miller seconding Bellamy on a few occasions, while Derek had been a fervent supporter of the obnoxious brat from the get go but the group had not exactly been divided over it.

'Storm damage.' Murphy explains in his usual deadpan voice, clapping his hand on his thighs to dust his pants. 'You'll be happy to note Spacewalker's chest if now delightfully knife-free.'

Bellamy grunts something unintelligible as he turns back to stalk towards the grounder, visibly finding no relevance in the additional piece of information provided. Miller lets an amused little smirk stretch his lips when he catches a glimpse of Murphy rolling his eyes behind the larger man's back, secretly glad to observe that the feisty little shit hasn't completely lost his spirit.

'We're gonna try this one more time.' Bellamy roars, marching right up to the grounder. 'What's your name?'

The grounder doesn't budge and Miller is hardly surprised; Baldy hasn't piped a word until now so why would he suddenly cave. Derek shifts impatiently by his side while Murphy crouches over a bundle containing the native's effects. Miller and the shaggy-haired boy had gone back to collect a few things from the grounder's lair; daggers, some odd looking tools and a few other irrelevant items. Derek had insisted on bringing back everything he could get his hands on, protesting meekly when Miller accused him of wanting to keep the pile of junk for his collection. It's no secret the redhead has a hoarding problem, it's even a running joke amongst the militia. Derek likes to collect things, from door handles to interesting looking nutshells. Miller found it sort of endearing at first but that was before he had to share a tent with the guy.

'You see anything worth keeping.' Miller asks casually, coming to stand a few paces from Murphy.

The slender teen's whole posture tenses at the sound of Nathan's voice but he recovers quickly, giving him a furtive glance as he scoots to the side to make some room. The older boy crouches next to him, mentally cringing at how awkward and strained every interaction between them has been since their time in the Skybox. They'd never been close but things had felt comfortable between them in lockup; not deep, not intense, just comfortable – or as comfortable as anything could be around John Murphy.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

'Bell.' Murphy's detached voice cracks through the room, interrupting Bellamy's next question. 'Check this out.'

The older Blake turns towards the boy, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from the native. Murphy is crouching by the trapdoor, hunched over a rectangular tin box, and Miller, who had been squatting over the grounder's belongings next to the kid, hurriedly pushes off onto his feet when Bellamy approaches. Murphy swiftly snatches the box off the ground and hands it over to the curly-haired man as he stoops down in front of him.

'Any idea what these are for?' Murphy's voice is calm and steady but his eyes quickly dart to the floor when Bellamy pries the box out of his grasp, callous fingers casually grazing against a slender hand.

'Who knows with those people.' Bellamy sighs, looking back to the grounder with a scowl on his face.

The tin box is old; the oxidized alloy has taken a blueish hue along the edges and bumps are distorting the sides of the rectangle. Cradled in a soft bed of fabric, a handful of vials. Their contents vary in colour and consistency but none of them are labelled. His eyes drift back to the pile in front of him and he frowns as his gaze lands on a thick leather bound journal. Intrigued, he plants the tin box back into Murphy's open hand and reaches for the diary, eyes darting up quickly when he hears the grounder stir. The man fights against his restraints, taut muscles bulging under his skin, and Bellamy arches an eyebrow back at Murphy when the pale teen catches his eyes with a sly grin.

'Looks like you found something he doesn't want you to see.' the boy scoffs, snatching the journal from Bellamy's hands and opening it on a random page.

'Certainly seems that way.' Bellamy smiles, watching Murphy's nimble fingers dance over the pages.

'Dear diary,' Murphy starts in an obnoxiously hoarse voice. 'Today I smeared myself with beaver oil to add that dreamy sheen to my immaculate skin because I _love_ gladiator movies.'

Derek sniggers and the elder Blake finds himself cracking a grin while the boy looks through the contents of the journal, indulging in the sight of that impish little smirk, revelling in the sound of that whimsical voice. That grin dies on Bellamy's lips when Murphy abruptly stops paging through the book, a deep scowl narrowing his marred features. He follows the boy's intense gaze down to the page that caught his attention and feels a cold fist clench tightly around his gut. The sketch is unpretentious, all soft pencil strokes and subtle shading, but there is no mistaking whose face he is looking at. Her features are tranquil – something he hasn't seen in the longest time – and the long black hair he spent hours brushing and braiding as a child cascades around that comely face. The savage somehow managed to capture that mischievous smile and the soft dimples in her cheeks.

Bellamy is not sure what surprises him more; that the man would dedicate so much effort to drawing his little sister or the searing animosity he finds on Murphy's face as the boy looks up from the book to meet the grounder's unnerving eyes. As the tension grows, Bellamy almost expects the kid to spring to his feet and charge at the native but Murphy schools himself by taking a deep breath, tearing his eyes from the grounder long enough to flip through the last few pages of the book. Just when Bellamy thought the kid had himself under control, Murphy lets out a deep growl and hurriedly pushes to his feet to stalk over to the grounder with the journal still clutched into his pale hand, open at the page he'd last been looking at.

'So what is this, uh?' he seethes angrily, pushing the book under the native's nose. 'You like keeping track of your kill count?'

'Murphy, what is it?' Bellamy calls out to him, slowly strolling over to stand by the kid's side as Murphy pulls the journal back.

When the boy remains silent, the older Blake firmly presses his hand between his shoulder blades and cranes his neck to peek over his shoulder, tensing when all he finds is a pageful of marks, scrupulously etched with a pencil. Brown eyes scan over the lines, row after row, and Bellamy straightens up to meet the grounder's eyes once more.

'I'm guessing there's a hundred and two.' he notes. 'Ten are crossed out. That's how many we've lost.'

'That asshole's been watching us ever since we got here.' Murphy growls in a low voice.

Bellamy feels taut muscles roll under his hand and realises how dangerously close to snapping the boy is. He firmly trails his hand up to clamp the crook of Murphy's neck into his palm, pulling the kid back into him for a brief instant before stepping past him. He stops mere inches from the grounder's face, Murphy's intense eyes still burning on the back if his head.

'He's gonna tell us everything.' Bellamy starts.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

'Show us the antidote or you'll wish you had.'

Murphy looks down to the obnoxious red nylon belt clutched into his palm, running a thumb along the rough fabric absently as he pulls out the yellow-striped knife from his belt.

Clarke and Octavia had stormed into the room, demanding to see the grounder. The blonde had stomped over to the native's corner where she proceeded to wave an intricate looking knife in front of his face, demanding to know about some antidote. Murphy had retreated towards the back of the room and propped himself against the wall next to an uncharacteristically quiet Derek to watch the princess bounce on the ball of her feet to point the blade under the grounder's nose.

'He poisoned the blade.'

The exchange had escalated, to the point Murphy had almost expected her to run the knife through that disturbingly unmoved face, her own delicate features distorted by a blend of fury and panic as she edged the knife dangerously close the grounder's eye with a shaky hand. Murphy was almost disappointed when Bellamy interjected, leaping towards the scene to pull her back, away from the native's impassive face.

'Could be what those vials are for.' Murphy had eventually piped in, picking up the tin box at his feet and tossing it to Bellamy who in turn had passed it on to Clarke with a shrug.

'You'd have to be stupid to have poison around for that long without an antidote.' she had muttered.

Murphy had crossed his arms over his chest as the agitation in the room around him intensified, remaining firmly planted against his wall. Derek had given him that semi confused, semi amused look of his and Murphy had rolled his eyes back at the shaggy-haired kid. Then Octavia had gotten in their faces, hissing at her brother when the older man clomped over to the native. Murphy couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why she would waste her breath defending that savage or why she would even consider turning to him – _him_ , Murphy, resident asshole – for support.

'He saved my life.' she seethed in his face, as though this could explain everything.

Murphy had stared right back at her, hoping the very state he was in, the pitiful excuse that passed for his face these days, would be response enough for her. The grounder had beaten him into a bloody pulp less than fours hours prior and she wanted him to jump onto the world-peace wagon with her?

'I'm gonna make him talk.' Bellamy had growled, low and guttural, shrugging her off to make his way over to the grounder. 'Murphy, get me something that will strike hard.'

'Do it.' Clarke sanctioned, her face frozen and set, but Murphy was already halfway to the remaining seats against the wall to Bellamy's left.

So there he stands now, grazing his fingers along the safety belt with one hand and clutching his knife in his other palm. The abhorrent red colour scorches his retina and his mind flashes back to the identical piece of nylon belt Connor had used to gag him. Murphy feels bile burning the back of his throat and his hand clenches so hard around the knife handle he can feel the cold metallic handle digging into his palm, hard enough to bruise.

_To think that was only two days ago..._

'Murph.' Bellamy's cold, hard voice pulls him back to the present. 'Today...'

He picks up the belt gingerly, mentally cringing at the all too familiar feel of nylon digging into his skin as he wraps his hand around it and tugs to pull it tight. He gives the offensive stretch of fabric a couple of vicious slashes with his knife, rejoicing at the sight of shredded material in front of him. When the belt comes loose, he clutches the cold metallic buckle into his hand and silently tosses it to the elder Blake. Bellamy snatches the buckle mid air and, for a fluttering second, Murphy swears he sees something on the older man's tan face, something that resembles shock with maybe the tiniest sliver of guilt, as he looks down to the belt in his hands.

The man looks up and as their eyes meet, stormy blue against hazel brown, Murphy feels a sickening wave of satisfaction rush through him at the sight of the chagrined expression that twists that handsome freckled face.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

'That'll do.' Bellamy's breath hitches in his throat but he forces himself to nod as he meets Murphy's intense stare.

Turning around to regain his composure, he looks down at the belt in his hands and feels a cold shiver run down his spine. Of all the things he could have chosen, this is what Murphy decided to throw at him. He wraps one end of the belt around his hand and takes a steady step back. The message is rather clear but Bellamy shakes his head angrily, dropping the buckle and letting it sway through the air for a few seconds before pivoting on himself. He pulls his shoulder back and swings it hard. The buckle rips through the air with a harsh hissing sound and lands square into the native's chest with a satisfying thud. The man recoils, hunching over as far as the restraints will allow but his mouth remains stubbornly shut so Bellamy pulls the belt back and strikes again, higher this time. The buckle smashes into the grounder's face with a sloppy wet sound.

Clarke shoulders into him from the side, forcing him out of the way to come kneel in front of the grounder with the tin box. Bellamy listens absently as she pleads with the savage, frantically pointing to the vials she scatters on the floor at his feet. The older Blake's eyes sweep over the room until he finds the pale boy with the battered face. Murphy is standing by the seats, dirty locks of chocolate brown hair falling over his brow, casting dark shadows down his cheeks. The older man tries to catch the boy's eyes but Murphy's stare remains obstinately fixated on the offending stretch of red nylon in the older man's hands.

'Please,' Clarke pleads. 'which one is it?'

'Just tell them!' Octavia snaps, tears spilling from her eyes.

Bellamy takes one look at her distraught face and feels his resolve waver. He tries to steady himself, tries to meet her eyes as she silently pleads with him while Clarke continues pawing at the pile of vials with shaky hands, long strands of wavy blond hair flopping over narrow shoulders. Bellamy wants to concede, he wants to give in – the way he should have given in when Octavia begged him not to kick that crate. He wants to fling the despicable red belt across the room but he knows they are running out of time. He knows there is no other way to get the information they need to save Finn... to save _themselves_.

Cold fingers suddenly fasten over his wrist and he looks down to watch a pair pale hands, clad in a familiar set of woollen cut-off gloves, work to pry the belt from his grip. Bellamy looks up into Murphy's stormy grey eyes and gives the boy a small grateful nod as slender fingers coil around the nylon strap. Bellamy hunches over to pull Clarke out of the way as the brown-haired boy positions himself in front of the grounder. The blonde doesn't resist, shuffling silently as Bellamy guides her towards the back of the room.

Behind them, Bellamy hears Murphy's calm voice rise above Octavia's protests. 'If you wanna talk it's now or never, buddy.'

Heavy silence answers the boy and Bellamy winces when the harsh sloppy sound of cold metal slapping into sweaty flesh slices the eerie quiet.

 

\-------------------------------------

 

Octavia grimaces as the blade slices into the soft flesh of her arm, fresh tears welling in her eyes. It had seemed like a clever idea at the time but the sight of her own blood dribbling down from the self-inflicted wound is beginning to shake her resolve.

She had cracked. When Raven picked up the wires and marched over to the native, she had completely lost her nerve, her mind racing to find a solution, a distraction, _anything_. Her eyes landed on the knife on the floor and her body sprung into motion before her brain had time to react. Before she knew, the knife was clutched into her hand, sharp blade pressing into her own arm.

Murphy had really leaned into the swings, always aiming for the soft spots, always finding his mark. He kept at it for what felt like hours but the native said nothing and Bellamy had lost his patience. Octavia felt sick to her stomach as she watched her brother run the thick sharpened bolt through the native's palm. But this had been nothing, nothing compared to the naked fear in the man's eerie black eyes as Raven approached him with the cables. Nothing compared to the agonised groans he'd let out as the athletic brunette had pressed the wires into his sides, his sweat and blood acting as conductor, driving the bolt of electricity through him.

'He won't let _me_ die.' she rasps, pressing the blade down harder, biting her lip as it slices deeper into her flesh.

She watches blood gush out of the gaping wound in her forearm and scurries over to him, shouldering past Murphy to come kneel over the vials on the floor. The grounder's face is unmoved but his eyes are wide, wider than she thought they could go. Still, he does not budge.

'Which one is it?' she asks, voice trembling in rhythm with her hands.

The large man sags in his restraints, his face hard set and contrite, his dark eyes peering into her very soul. She kneels before him, ghosting fingers over the vials, watching subtle waves of emotions washing over that stoic face. His chin suddenly juts towards the left and she feels her heart swell inside her chest as she follows his gaze down to the leftmost vial.

'This one?' She picks it up with a shaky hand and hold it out to his face.

He gives her a curt nod. Clarke rushes over to her and snatches the vial out of her hand before sprinting over to the trap with Raven, muttering a brief 'thank you' as she makes her way down ladder. Octavia is still busy wrapping her wounded arm with a loose piece of cloth when a warm hand closes around her arm gently. She spins around on her heels to snarl at her brother.

'Don't touch me!' she growls, ignoring the wounded look on his face.

 

\----------------------------------

 

Bellamy finally catches up to Murphy by the edge of camp, near the south gate. He trots over to where the younger man is standing with his back to him, instructing Derek and Drew on which part of the gate they should start freeing up first. When the boys nod in unison and scamper away, Bellamy puts a steady hand under the boy's elbow to wheel him around. Murphy meets his eyes steadily and the harsh light that filters through the clouds above head gives his skin an eerie grey hue, making that face even more stern, even more blasé somehow. Bellamy takes another step forward, one more step than strictly necessary, and leans over the kid to search that face.

'Bell?'

The voice is calm, too calm, and Bellamy wants to shake him, he wants to back the boy up into the gate and make him _talk_. Make him _scream_ , make him spill his heart out for the world to see because Bellamy has no clue what's trotting through the boy's head, no clue what the boy wants him to _do,_ what the kid _needs_ to heal.

'Why d'you pick the belt?' he scolds, his voice a bit harsher than he intended. 'Of all the things you could have handed me, why would you pick that fucking belt?'

Murphy smiles up at him, that cold empty smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, that haunting smile that's been lingering on the boy's face more often than not since the lynching. The smile of someone that just wants the world to continue spinning around them.

'Seemed fitting somehow...' Murphy sighs, pale eyes never leaving Bellamy's. 'Maybe we can make it your trademark, your weapon of choice.'

'I didn't gag you...' Bellamy starts, pulling the boy closer with a firm hand, as if proximity could bridge the gap between them.

Murphy's stare never leaves his face, it drifts down to his lips, for a fluttering moment, and then returns to Bellamy's soft hazel gaze. His eyes shine softly in the fading light of a late afternoon and, in spite of the frozen smile that's still stretching those pale lips, the older Blake catches a flicker of anguish in those troubled grey pools.

'All that is necessary for evil to prevail if for a good man to do nothing.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, Murphy isn't the one getting his ass handed over to him :D
> 
> This a bit of plot driven chapter. Less fluff than the previous one but it was necessary to get to the next part. Also, as I was watching episode 8 again, I couldn't help but notice the strap Bellamy uses to torture Lincoln is the same as the strap Connor used to gag Murph before they hung him. And damn, that really offended me off for some reason. On behalf of Murphy that is eheh
> 
> So here goes. Next two chapters will cover the events of Day trip - guns, fluff and hallucinogenic nuts.
> 
> Thanks for all the love guys :)


	13. Part 2: Home is where the heart should be.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter! First chapter covering Day trip :)  
> Hope you enjoyed it!

# Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

 

###  Chapter 9: Home is where the heart should be.

 

 

'So how'd you like them nuts, Miller?' Derek drawls in a mockingly sensual voice.

Nathan looks up to find the boy holding a nut between his thumb and index finger in each one of his hands, right in front of his crotch. The redhead rolls his hips seductively, giving the older delinquent what he must deem to be his sexiest look; rose lips puckered and one pale eyebrow furrowed while the other one arches up towards the sky. Nathan doesn't really mind the kid's antics; he knows Derek doesn't mean anything by it and, although he would hate to admit it, he's actually grown quite fond of the boy's shenanigans.

'Sorry to burst your bubble, Der.' Miller scoffs. 'But your nuts are not my type.'

'Oh yeah? You don't like the ginger nuts?' Derek asks with a conniving smile. ' You like perky little blondes better or maybe foxy, long-legged brunettes?'

Nathan rolls his eyes, looking back down at the pile of nuts Fox had brought up for them. He plucks one into his mouth and turns back towards the ladder as the sound of foot steps echoes through the room above them. Bellamy had sent him and Derek down to catch a break while he, Murphy and Drew cleaned up after their little session with the grounder. The man beast still hadn't piped a word and Miller was beginning to believe he had imagined the exchange between Octavia and the savage the previous night. He could have sworn he had heard the grounder say something to her... in _English_.

Before long, Bellamy comes down the ladder, Murphy on his tail. The elder Blake takes a few steps towards where he and Derek are standing while Murphy takes one look in Miller's direction before splitting towards the second ladder, the one that leads down to the bottom floor.

'Yeah, it was good to see you too, asshole.' Miller mutters under his breath.

Bellamy gives Murphy a curious look before turning back to Nathan with a cocked eyebrow. Miller knows better than to explain himself; it's unlikely the older Blake would give a rat's ass but with Bellamy's temper these days, he's not sure whether the man would just shrug him off or string him up beside the grounder.

'Don't ask me.' Derek scoffs with a shrug when Bellamy turns to him. 'These two have had a beef since the Box.'

'Nothing that will get in the way of business, boss.' Miller grins, tapping his knuckles to his forehead in a mock military salute before flipping Derek the finger while Bellamy's not looking.

The older Blake looks between the two of them once more before grabbing himself a handful of nuts and shoving it into his pocket for later. Nathan reaches over and hands the older man a canteen of water. Bellamy takes a chug and hands it back to him.

'Miller, you're in charge while I'm out. You two stay put, alright?' the elder Blake instructs firmly before turning on his heels and disappearing down through the trapdoor.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

'Grab your things.'

'You have _got_ to be kidding me, Bell.' Murphy turns to him with a look of pure exasperation on his face, throwing his hands up in the air in a way that might have been completely warranted had Bellamy just asked him to do fifteen laps around the perimeter of camp.

The older Blake had thought about it long and hard. Clarke had cornered him to explain what she had found on the map and he had agreed to go check out the supply depot with her. He would bring Murphy and the two of them would escort the princess all the way to the depot. With some luck, they would find some warmer clothing and a few blankets, maybe even some survival gear then they would split on her, just him and the brown-haired boy. They would find a cosy spot by the river and set up camp, maybe catch some fish, build some traps for rats and rabbits. They would be fine. They would get by.

He had not planned on breaking the news to Murphy until they got to the depot so he would need to pack enough rations to last the both of them for a couple of days into his own bag to avoid arousing the boy's suspicion. He had it all carefully mapped out in his mind. Yet, when he told Murphy to get ready to leave, the boy had laughed in his face.

'Come on, Blake.' Murphy scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. 'You're exhausted, _I'm_ exhausted. Neither one of us has slept more than two hours in days...'

'Clarke looked at the map. There's a supply depot a few miles from here.' Bellamy groans, frowning down at him. 'We need supplies, ropes, weapons. Whatever can help us get through winter.'

Murphy looks into his eyes long and hard, pale eyes searching into his very soul and Bellamy feels like cold fingers are poking around his every thought, uncovering every intention, every little secret; like the boy already knows, like that insufferable little asshole has already seen right through his scheming. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, hands planted on his hips. Would the boy follow if Bellamy admitted he was planning on leaving camp before the guard came down?

'I'm not doing any more fucking errands for the Princess till I've had some sleep.' Murphy growls. 'You wanna jump through hoops everytime she opens her pretty little mouth? You suit yourself, Bell.'

Murphy starts to turn away but Bellamy grabs him by the arm firmly, leaning into him when the boy looks back at him over his shoulder. In spite of the rain the day before, Murphy's hair is still dirty and matted, his face is ghastly white. The gash under his eye is looking a bit puffier than Bellamy is entirely comfortable with so the older man makes a mental note to grab some more of Monty's poultice from the Dropship before they leave.

'Nobody's jumping through hoops.' Bellamy hushes, gently squeezing the slender boy's arm into his hand. 'I need you to come with me. I'll explain. Just get your things.'

For the longest time, Murphy says nothing. The boy just looks up at him through thick black lashes, pale eyes drifting down to his lips, if only for a second. The boy suddenly flashes him a grim smile, shrugging his arm off to spin on his heels once more. Murphy faces him, cold dead eyes dispassionate, and gives him a little curtsy before reversing out of the tent.

'As you say, your majesty.' he hears the boy snigger as he disappears from his sight.

 

\---------------------------------------

 

Murphy pauses besides Bellamy as they reach the gate and watches the older man turn back towards the camp, soft hazel eyes scanning the crowd. He watches the apple in Bellamy's throat bob anxiously as the man's searching gaze finally finds its mark. Octavia meets her brother's eyes from where she is standing by the Dropship hatch and when Murphy looks back to Bellamy, he cannot help the trickle of unease that slithers down the nape of his neck. Something in the older Blake's posture feels off, out of place. The younger teen shakes himself firmly, electing not to coddle the older man any more than strictly necessary.

'Shall we?' Murphy groans impatiently, bumping into the man's shoulder on his way through the gate.

The air is crisp against his face, waves of cold rising from the moist undergrowth, and there is a brisk little wind blowing from the side, just hard enough to push whatever locks of hair are not completely matted with blood and mud into his eyes. All in all, the weather feels warmer than it did during the storm but there is no denying that the days have been growing steadily colder since their landing. Murphy had absently listened when Monty, the Farming Station boy, explained that they were closing in on October and that, by the time December came by, they could very well be facing snow. Murphy had banished the thought from his mind with a shake of his head. He hated the cold, more than anything – well, other than asphyxiation and the taste of his own blood. But cold made you sick and sick was something Murphy just couldn't afford to be.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, the boy brings a sleeve up to his face to wipe his nose but stops himself when he realises Clarke is staring at him from where she is walking on the other side of Bellamy. He cranes his neck to give her a sleazy grin, hoping that will be enough to make her look away but the stubborn wench persists.

'You know, Princess,' he grins. 'if someone has something stuck in their teeth, it's only common courtesy to tell them.'

'You look...' she starts, frowning as she searches for the adequate word to voice her concern. '...very pale.'

'You suddenly noticed?' Bellamy scoffs light-heartedly.

Murphy just shrugs them off, shoving his hands back into his pockets and taking a few long strides to detach himself from their little procession. The minute people start worrying about you being sick, _that's_ when you get sick and John Murphy has no intention of being sick. He walks silently in the front, listening to Clarke and Bellamy discuss possible routes as they reach a clearing packed with shrivelling shrubs. He side steps one of the narrow trunks and pushes another one out of his path. Murphy briefly considers letting it snap back into the elder Blake's annoyingly tan face but ends up holding it long enough for Bellamy to grab onto it.

'You know the first Dropship is gonna come down soon.' Clarke pipes up, breaking the silence after a few minutes of wordless meandering. 'Pretty sure you can't avoid Jaha forever.'

'And miss that mass murdering son of a bitch getting impaled by the first grounder he meets?' Murphy chuckles grimly. 'Hell, I'd shake that grounder's hand. It could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship between our people. Peace on Earth at last!'

Bellamy lets out a raucous little laugh but Clarke remains stubbornly silent and Murphy can almost feel her rolling her eyes behind him.

'I can try.' the older Blake offers, picking up the conversation with Clarke as if Murphy hadn't interrupted.

Murphy pushes harder on his legs as the incline increases in front of them, worn muscles cramping from overuse and scabs cracking as battered skin pulls tight over bony knees. He is the first one to make it to the top of the hill, the first one to behold the inauspicious scene that awaits them. A cold light is filtering through a dense layer of clouds, bathing the ruins in front of him in a eerie grey hue. There's a statue poking out in the middle of the murky swamp at his feet and what remains of a roof breaking the surface besides it. On the other side of the bog, he sees more dilapidated structures, cracked white pillars and old derelict building façades. To add a nice finish to the gloomy atmosphere, crows are flying low overhead, croaking mockingly as a thick blanket of fog rolls over the trees in the distance.

'How jolly...' Murphy mutters, scrunching his nose at the pungent smell of stagnating water.

'The depot is supposed to be around here somewhere.' Clarke chirps up, coming to stand beside him.

'There's got to be a door.'

Murphy takes a few steps down the gentle slope that leads to the bank of the swamp, ignoring the conversation behind him to come crouch by the stagnant water. He winces when the acrid smell rising from the viscous mud at his feet hits his nose, standing up to put some much needed distance between his nostrils and that nauseating stench.

'Maybe he'll be lenient.'

Murphy almost turns back to ask Clarke if she can spare some of what she's been smoking but Bellamy beats him to it.

'Look, I shot the man, Clarke.' the elder Blake grunts. 'He's not just gonna forgive and forget.'

Heavy footsteps slice through the silence behind him and Murphy looks to the side quickly when Bellamy's hand presses against the small of his back. The man looks weary, his freckled cheeks are more gaunt than Murphy has ever seen them and his hazel eyes shift nervously over the scene. A deep frown darkens that sun-kissed face and, for a fluttering second, Murphy wants nothing more than to tell Bellamy everything is going to be just fine but the boy shakes himself firmly. Murphy knows things won't be fine unless they make them.

'Let's split up.' Bellamy starts, directing him towards the left bank of the swamp with the hand that's resting on his back. 'We'll cover more ground. Stay within shouting distance.'

 

\------------------------------------

 

'Over here!' Clarke shouts, cutting Bellamy dead in his tracks. 'I found a door!'

He jumps over a chest high wall to come crouch beside her as she continues fumbling with a pair of rounded handles sticking out of the metallic panel that's covered under a pile of dead grass. He briefly considers calling Murphy over but decides to make sure this is the right door before he interrupts the other boy in his search. Clarke shift anxiously next to him, delicate hands tugging at the handles, grunting in frustration when all she gets for her effort are a little creak and a rattle.

'Uh! I think it's rusted shut.' she groans, making room so he can give it a try.

'Here, watch your foot.' Bellamy instructs, slapping her ankle away with the back of his hand so he can start hammering the flat of his hatchet against a latch at the bottom of the door.

The latch gives in with a resounding cling and Clarke manages to lift the door out of its frame. Bellamy moves up to help her and they proceed to pull back the metal hatch all the way. The path leading down to the lower level looks dark and uninviting, cobwebs hanging over the walls and a thick layer of dust covering the steps. There is a ripe smell on the air, one that Bellamy cannot identify with certainty; moldy wood or stagnating water. Particles of dust sting his eyes as they progress down the passage with only the sound of footfall against hard metallic steps to break the oppressive silence. A large painted sign catches the glow of Clarke's halogen lamp as they reach the bottom of the first flight of stairs. The inscriptions are covered with dust and the paint is cracking around some of the letters, making them nearly unreadable, but Bellamy's brain easily fills in the blanks: Emergency Aid Depot #23.

'Really think this place hasn't been touched since the war?' Bellamy questions as Clarke passes him the lamp.

'A girl can dream.' she responds, fumbling through her carrier bag to pull out a second searchlight.

He is pretty sure Murphy won't take long to find the hatch and join them down in the depot. The search area they had delimited is quite narrow and he knows the boy is more than capable of both finding his way and faring for himself. Yet, Bellamy is not entirely comfortable with not having the kid by his side. He almost doubles back to go fetch the sullen boy but a quick gasp from Clarke steals his attention before he can even voice the thought. He follows her gaze down to the stairs below and his eyes land on the mummified remains of a man in military garment.

'Hell of a place to die.' he comments darkly.

The sight of the corpse at his feet reminds him that it will probably work out better if they don't all come down into the tunnels, leaving their rear open to a possible offensive from the grounders. Bellamy represses the urge to turn on his heels and follows down after the blonde. The staircase grows progressively narrower as they delve deeper into the ground and the weak daylight that had been lighting up their path through the open hatch has long since receded. Bellamy takes a look around as they reach the bottom of what appears to be the last flight of stairs, frowning at the thick spider webs covering a pile of crates to his right.

'So much for living down here.' Clarke sighs. 'This place is disgusting.'

Bellamy nods in agreement. Water is pouring from a broken pipe above their head, covering the concrete floor below their feet in damp and dribbling down the walls on either side of them. He stalks over to one of the large wooden crates and shakes his head sourly at the mess of empty tins and candy wrappers he finds within.

'They must have disturbed most of the supplies before the last bomb went off.' Clarke groans, visibly unimpressed as she lifts the lid of a large plastic trunk open with her boot.

Bellamy delves into another open crate against the wall of the narrow corridor they have engaged into. He finds an emergency glow stick and cracks it eagerly, grinning in victory as bright orange light suddenly floods the passage from between his fingers.

'Hey, I found blankets.' Clarke chimes in.

Bellamy's grin fades and his face crunches into a hard scowl. Blankets will come in handy since he only brought food rations and an extra set of jackets with him but he had been hoping to find some form of shelter or even weapons. They would not survive a whole winter out in the wilderness with a pair of lousy blankets.

'Excited about a couple of blankets!?' he grunts, throwing the glow stick to the floor at Clarke's feet.

'Well, its something.' she snorts.

'How about a water canteen or a med kit.' he growls, marching down the corridor in front of them. 'Or a decent fricking tent!'

They would be able to find a cave, he was sure, but they might have to move around when the rodents started migrating or if the grounders came after them. He had hoped to find a tent he and Murphy could use in case of emergency, if they had to travel from one shelter to the next overnight.

 _If_ Murphy decided to follow him. He paused with a frown as he realised he had never even questioned whether the boy would be willing to leave the safety of camp behind to follow him into exile. He had just assumed Murphy would follow, the way he always did, a sarcastic comment on his lips and little spark of amusement in those cold blue eyes. The boy had been like a second shadow for the older Blake since day one, even after the lynching. He had followed him this far.

The curly-haired man pries a large metallic drum open, mentally cringing at the loud cling of the lid hitting the concrete floor, then distractedly dips his fingers into the murky liquid that fills the tub to the brim. The liquid is thick and viscous, sticking to his skin as he rubs it between his index and his thumb. He had hoped it might be oil or fuel but the acrid smell that tickles his nostrils as he brings wet fingers up to his face tells him otherwise. The elder Blake lets out a growl of pure frustration and tumbles the drum over with an angry kick, grimacing viciously as the large cylinder hits the ground with a loud bang and spills its load onto the hard concrete floor. A glint of metal catches his eyes and Bellamy crouches over the drum to survey the contents scattered on the ground.

'Oh, my god.' he grins.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

'This changes everything.'

Clarke observes nervously as Bellamy swiftly shoulders one of the automatic rifles. She is not entirely comfortable with how well the man seems to know his way around a gun. She had already seen him with a firearm but something about the look of pure determination on his face as he handles the rifle unsettles her deeply.

'No more running from spears.' he grins, marching over to her. 'Ready to be a badass, Clarke?'

'Look, I'm not gonna fight you on bringing guns back to camp. I know we need them.' she starts, watching the man pluck a couple of nuts into his mouth. 'But don't expect me to like it.'

'We're lucky the rifles were packed in grease.' Bellamy continues, ignoring her concerns, and Clarke barely represses an exasperated sigh. 'The fact that they survived means we're not sitting ducks anymore. You need to learn how to do this.'

The older man calmly proceeds to show her how to properly shoulder an automatic weapon and Clarke promptly finds her reticence melting away. The barrel feels cold and solid in her palm, the hard recoil of the rifle jutting back into her shoulder makes something stir deep inside her chest. She looks up from the barrel to survey her handy work and notices Bellamy setting two rifles aside from the corner of her eye.

'You left Miller in charge of the grounder.' she pipes up, pulling the older man from his reveries. 'You must trust him.'

Bellamy remains silent for a few seconds and she takes in the way his jaw clenches as he carefully picks his next words. She knows there is something the older delinquent is not telling her, she had noticed his change in behaviour from the very moment they had left camp. Bellamy had been more guarded, less cocky, and something in the way he had looked at Octavia before they left had made the blonde uneasy. What had been even more unsettling had been watching him and Murphy walk silently, neither one of them piping a word for most of the trek to the depot. She had caught the slender boy throwing a few scrutinising glances Bellamy's way and deduced Murphy was just as dumbfounded as she was by the older man's peculiar behaviour.

'You should keep him close.' Bellamy finally breaks the silence, looking straight ahead. 'The others listen to him.'

' _I_ should keep him close?' she asks, increasingly nervous as she circles to come stand in front of him. 'Bellamy, what's going on? You've been acting weird all day.'

Her eyes drift down, shifting between the bulging side pack Bellamy had brought along and the two guns he just set aside. She remembers how he had stubbornly insisted on bringing Murphy, in spite of how utterly exhausted the kid looked, remembers how fervently he had been looking for a tent a little earlier. Most of all, she remembers how remorseful he had looked as he locked eyes with his sister.

'All the rations you took. You're gonna run? That's why you agreed to come with me?' she starts, eyes opening wide as the realisation finally hits her. 'And Murphy, have you even told him you're not coming back to camp with us?'

'Murphy's coming with me.'

'Does he know that?' she scoffs derisively.

'I don't have a choice.' Bellamy continues in a low voice, completely disregarding the previous question. 'The Ark will be here soon.'

'So you're just gonna leave Octavia?' she grunts, shaking her head, hoping the allusion to his sister might get through to the man's thick skull.

How can he even be considering this? How can he just walk out on them when winter is nearly upon them? How can he leave his sister after everything that happened? How can he just assume Murphy will blindly follow? Not that she doubts the kid will, mind you. Somehow she doesn't think the sullen boy will even think twice about abandoning a camp full of people who lynched him, who tried to hang him. But Clarke had looked at him, she'd heard the sniffles, she'd seen the gaunt look on his face. Sleep deprivation, exposure and poor nutrition were taking their toll on Bellamy's dutiful lieutenant. The older Blake had pushed him too hard, dragged him along on ever little expedition with no regard for the kid's state of health or mind. Murphy had been showing all the signs of both mental and physical burnout for days and that was _before_ the thorough beating he took at the hand of the grounder, not two days after being lynched by an angry mob.

'Octavia hates me.' Bellamy grunts, breaking the silence. 'She'll be fine.'

'Murphy won't be fine.' Clarke berates. 'He's got broken ribs, if he takes a bad fall, he could puncture a lung. That's if he doesn't collapse from sheer exhaustion beforehand. You can't keep throwing him around and expect him to just walk everything off. He's sustained considerable injuries, Bellam--'

'Murphy's fine.' Bellamy growls in a low, menacing voice, eyes bearing into hers as he takes slow, deliberate step towards her.

Clarke shakes her head angrily, partly because she knows this will end in tears and partly because she can't stomach the thought of being alone at the head of their unruly band of misfits. She cannot control them, she cannot command their loyalty, not the way Bellamy can. Miller might be able to help, he seems like a reasonable guy, but there is so little time before winter sets in. Can she really take a chance?

'I shot the chancellor.' Bellamy continues grimly, cutting into her train of thoughts. 'They're gonna _kill_ me, Clarke. Best case scenario, they lock me up with the grounder for the rest of my life and there's no way in hell I'm giving Jaha the satisfaction.'

Bellamy takes a wobbly step backwards and turns towards the corner where he had gathered his things. He sets the halogen lamp he had been clutching in his hand down onto one of the drums lined up against the wall before turning back to her. The curly-haired man looks confused, disoriented, and Clarke can see a faint sheen of sweat covering his upper lip and brow.

'Keep practising.' he grunts, unfocused eyes staring straight past her as he shakes his head to clear his thoughts. 'I need some air.'

 


	14. Part 2: Dark bodies floating in darkness

# Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

 

###  Chapter 10: Dark bodies floating in darkness

 

 

Bellamy storms out of the depot like a bat out of hell. The brisk morning air feels heavenly against his feverish skin and he throws his head back to let the cold rain drizzle onto his face. His vision swims when he looks down to the mud at his feet and he finds himself swaying to the side on shaky legs, so he lowers himself down onto a large, wet stump. At some point, while they had been in the depot, the breeze had died down and the clouds had thickened above head, plunging the scenery into darkness. A loud screech slices through the silence and he looks up sharply, cringing as his field of vision narrows down to a tunnel when his eyes strain to focus through the blur and rain. Bellamy's heart jumps in his throat when he catches the glimpse of a dark silhouette disappearing into the shrivelling shrubbery. He pushes up from the moss-covered stump and runs a hand over his face to steady himself when he feels the world spin around him again. Still, he presses on, taking hurried steps through a large puddle to reach the strange figure, the wet suction noise of hard boot soles being wrenched out of the mud drowning the deafening pounding of his own heart in his ears.

He reaches a small break in the shrubbery and looks around wildly but instead of a man, all he finds is a mound of freshly overturned soil in the middle of the clearing. He swallows against the hard lump in his throat and shuffles over to the freshly covered grave, feet that suddenly feel too heavy for his legs dragging across the ground. His vision blurs again and Bellamy falls to his knees right in front of the mound. The soil is wet and soft against his skin as he digs both of his hands into the earth to scoop a fistful of mulch.

'Bellamy Blake.' someone calls out, causing him to look up from the dirt in his hands.

Thelonious Jaha stands behind the grave with a grim look on that stern face, clutching his stomach in a vain attempt to quell the dark rivulets of blood that soak through his shirt from the bullet wound Bellamy knows is concealed underneath. The man's eyes are cold and unwavering as he scrutinises him, his large shoulders are squared and his feet are planted into the ground firmly. He looks nothing like a dying man, intelligent eyes searching the younger man's face through the pouring rain.

'How are you here? You're on the Ark.' Bellamy croaks out, waving to the grave at his feet. 'You're not _dead_.'

'This is not my grave.' Jaha responds cryptically. 'You shot me but I'm not the one who died.'

Bellamy looks up at the older man, frowning at the vicious little smile that tugs at the corners of Jaha's mouth. His heart is pounding against his chest and he struggles to focus on the man's monotonous voice. The chancellor's grin stretches wider, pearly white teeth shining faintly between dark lips, and he reaches up with a large blood-soaked hand to cup the front of his own neck symbolically.

'Here's a hint.' Jaha continues in a calm voice, stepping in closer to crouch next to the younger man and cocking his head to the side to illustrate his amusement. 'You hung him from a tree. He begged for your help but you kicked the crate from under his feet and watched him die.'

Bellamy fights against the wave of nausea that suddenly crashes down onto him, cringing at the acrid taste of bile rising in the back of his throat. He clamps his eyes shut and he shakes his head hard as he brings both hands up to clutch wet curly hair, fingers trembling as they rake against his skull. His brain races through the events of the past few days, desperately trying to shake the veil of confusion that shrouds his mind. His mind is reeling in denial but the memories are hazy and Jaha's sultry voice is hypnotic.

_The isn't real... Murphy's fine. He's around here somewhere._

'Murphy's _fine_.' Bellamy rasps, seconds away from spilling the contents of a meagre breakfast over the mulch at his feet.

The grave is still there when he opens his eyes so he looks around wildly, searching the shrubbery for Jaha and freezing when his eyes land on the ghastly looking boy. Murphy is standing a few feet to his left, his face a soft ashen grey, dirty brown locks falling into stormy grey eyes. His arms are dangling limply at his side and rain is dribbling down from his hair into the corner of his mouth but all Bellamy can focus on is the angry purple array of bruises across the boy's neck; all he can see is the maze of broken skin and scabs on that milky white skin.

'Murph...'

 

\----------------------------------

 

'Bell, hey.' Murphy starts, strolling towards the older man. 'I'm sorry, I got a bit side-tracked. I thought I saw someo-- Bell?'

He comes to an abrupt stop to observe the state of complete disarray the elder Blake is in; kneeling on the ground with fistfuls of moist soil in his hands, his hair dishevelled and his freckled face frozen in an expression of pure shock. The older man doesn't respond, not even to acknowledge his presence, staring at him with those wide hazel eyes, leaving Murphy wondering whether the man has heard a single word he said.

'Murph...' Bellamy eventually croaks out, his voice tight and strained.

Murphy watches in dismay as the curly-haired man pushes to his feet and stumbles over to him, swaying disjointedly on weary legs. Bellamy comes to a halt less than a feet in front of him and Murphy forces himself to hold that misty chestnut stare. The younger man shift uncomfortably on his feet, straining to prevent his own eyes from lingering on what he thinks might be a trail of tears running down the older man's freckled cheek. It could be a trick of the light or it could just be the rain, yet something in the older man's posture, something in the slight quiver in Bellamy's lower lip fills the younger man with a sense of foreboding.

'I'm sorry...' Bellamy groans, barely above a whisper, his gravelly voice so low and broken Murphy has to lean in to hear. 'I shoulda stopped them. I shoulda--'

The larger man lets rip a guttural grunt and Murphy suddenly finds himself engulfed in a tight embrace, strong arms wrapped around his slender shoulders and trembling hands clutched into the back of his jacket. Bellamy's face is warm, so warm against his cold skin as the man buries his nose into his neck. Something swells painfully inside Murphy's chest and he tries to return the embrace, tries to bring his hands up to hug back but Bellamy's arms are wound so tightly around his shoulders that the boy can barely breathe, let alone move. So he just stands there, pressing his own cold cheek against the elder Blake's warm freckled face, and listens as the older man pours his heart out.

'I should have stopped them. I should have defended you.' Bellamy whines, wet face nuzzling into the crook of the boy's neck. 'I _killed_ you...'

_It's not forgiveness_ , Murphy tells himself as he finally manages to lift his arm and brings a hand up to bury his fingers into the thick mess of curly black hair on the back of Bellamy's head.

_It's definitely not forgiveness,_ the little voice in his head repeats calmly as he rubs the tip of his fingers against the older man's scalp, swiftly pushing Bellamy's jacket up to rest his other hand into the small of his back.

_He can't forgive, Bellamy needs to pay_. Yet, he gently pulls the man closer and continues raking his fingers through thick black hair, rubbing soothing circle against the small of his back while Bellamy continues mumbling into his neck, hot breath scalding his cold wet skin. The man's head is heavy on his shoulder and his arms are wound so tightly around Murphy's contused chest that the boy has to bite his lip to stifle a moan but he cannot deny that a little part of him basks in the moment, revels in the older man's gruff embrace, so he tilts his head to the side and cranes his neck to rub the tip of his nose against the line of Bellamy's jaw.

John wants to forgive, John wants to _forget_.

But John died a long time ago and Murphy _needs_ retribution.

 

\------------------------------------

 

Jaha's cold voice breaks the spell.

'It's more than just his forgiveness you should seek.'

Bellamy looks up from the boy's shoulder and freezes as a first silhouette detaches itself from the tree line. He pushes himself back roughly, ignoring a little grunt of surprise from the slender boy, and sidesteps around Murphy to watch a middle-aged blonde woman shuffle over to them through the undergrowth. Her features are gaunt, dark shadows underlining sullen eyes as she sways from one foot to the next, her dull ash blond hair spilling over her brow and into her face. As she gets closer, Bellamy catches a glimpse of the feral grin that curls her chapped lips.

_Murderer_...

'Bell?' Murphy mutters, gently grabbing him by the elbow.

'You're _dead_.' Bellamy growls, wide eyes drifting between the brown-haired boy and the blonde. 'You're dead, you can't be _here_.'

He pulls his arm back violently but Murphy reaches out again. The boy tries to place both of his hands over Bellamy's shoulders and the older man shoves him back harshly. Bellamy takes a few staggering steps backwards, scanning the wilderness around them and gasping as more shambling figures break the tree line.

_Murderer_... _Murderer_...

'You're dead. And she's dead. And they're _all_ dead.' Bellamy shouts, shoving Murphy back again when the boy scampers over to him.

'The three hundred and twenty souls that were culled on the Ark so that others could live.' Jaha grins, leaning over Murphy's shoulder to look at the curly-haired man. 'You knew that they would be sacrificed.'

'The radio.' Bellamy mutters. 'I didn't know that would happen.'

_Murderer_...

'Bell, what the hell have you been smoking, man?' Murphy snaps, trying to grab onto his shoulders again.

Bellamy snarls and shoves him back a third time. The boy staggers and falls onto his haunches into the heap of dirt, into his own _grave_. The older man wheels around to face the hordes of cadaverous labourers, anxiety bubbling in his chest as he loses count of the silhouettes pouring out of the woods around him. His vision is blurred, sweat is dripping from his brow, stinging his eyes, and he blinks rapidly to clear the haze that obscures his sight. The world around him remains out of focus and he cringes at the burning sensation in his lungs as he starts to hyperventilate.

_Working people... your people... Now you have to live with it._

He breaks into a run. His feet pump into the ground, mud flying in all directions as he races off towards the tree line, hoping against all hope that he will be able to disappear in the woodlands. The rain is pouring down around him, fat drops slapping against his face, into his eyes, and he squints to find a path through the shrubbery. His chest is tight and his heart is racing but he can still hear them, hear _him_ , over the harsh thump of his own feet beating the ground.

'Bell!'

The older Blake comes to a halt in the middle of the forest, staring with wide eyes as the masses of culled workers circle around him, shuffling on broken limbs, moaning in near unison. A crowd gathers around him, edging closer, engulfing him, suffocating him, until he loses sight of the woods around them.

_Murderer... Murderer... Murderer..._

Bellamy clamps his hands over his ears and shuts his eyes tight to escape the unsettling dead stares. The sound of feet dragging through fallen leaves comes to an abrupt stop and the elder Blake finally opens his eyes to find chancellor Jaha standing right above him, unnerving black eyes staring holes into Bellamy's soul. The younger man suddenly realises he's kneeling in the mulch at the man's feet, completely and utterly surrounded by the reanimated corpses of his victims. He bites his lip viciously and the metallic taste of his own blood fills his mouth.

'Kill me.' he pleads, seemingly out of nowhere.

He wants to fights, wants to spring up and run, but the words keep spilling from his mouth. He listens to himself _begging_ for the sweet mercy of death, a passenger in his own body. Jaha's face is hard and the smile that stretches his lips is sharp as a dagger. The corpses of his victims are gathered so close around them that Bellamy can almost feel them, can almost smell their cold, putrid breaths.

'I deserve it.' he groans, absently pulling out the handgun from the back of his pants. 'Please.'

A sharp bolt of pain shoots through his neck as Jaha backhands him with such force that the elder Blake finds himself propelled backwards onto his rear end. Another hard punch sends him rolling to the ground and he curls up tightly on his side when a steel-capped boot comes crashing into his stomach. Bellamy realises the handgun must have flown out of his grasp because he suddenly finds himself blinking at his own empty hands.

'Don't you know life is a fight?' Jaha scolds, and Bellamy's world explodes into pain once more as the larger man sends a boot flying into his chest.

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Murphy hears the sound of a rifle cocking before he even realises what he stumbled onto. He had finally managed to catch up to Bellamy, only to find him kneeling on the ground in front of a large hooded figure. Murphy had recognised Dax's denim jacket even before the kid threw back the hood of the grey sweater he wore underneath. The taller boy towers above Bellamy's hunched up figure and Murphy struggles to wrap his mind around the situation.

'It's nothing personal.' Dax sighs and Murphy finally catches sight of the rifle in the boy's large hands.

Goading his weary legs into action with a painful grunt, the brown-haired boy sprint off in their direction just in time to push the barrel of the gun away from Bellamy's unfocused eyes. Dax spins around on himself and pushes the smaller boy off roughly with the butt of his rifle before pointing the nuzzle right into Murphy's blanching face. Ice blue eyes meet stormy grey in the ominous silence that follows and Murphy frowns as he catches a genuine twinge of regret in the tall delinquent's angular features.

'Dax, what the hell, man?' he snaps, raising his hands up, palms facing forward in a futile attempt to diffuse the taller man.

'You weren't supposed to be here, Murphy but Shumway said _no witnesses_.' Dax scowls, pulling the trigger.

Murphy's whole world comes to halt. For a split second, it even feels like the rain stopped pouring around them. His mind races frantically, to all the things he wanted to see, to all the things he still _needs_ to do. Like hanging Bellamy fucking Blake from a goddamn tree and framing that self-righteous wench of a Princess for a murder she hasn't committed. He snarls savagely at the complete and utter injustice of it all, at the preposterous thought of his own premature demise being nothing but the by-product of Bellamy's goddamn shitfest of a life.

The click of the rifle rips through the silence, echoing viciously through the forest around them but the darkness doesn't come. Murphy's snarl deepens when he sees Dax's face fall. The larger man fumbles with the magazine of his gun and a single bullet falls to the ground with a muffled thud when he finally manages to unjam the rifle but Murphy is on him before he can even think to raise the weapon again, channelling the scorching rage that threatens to consume him from within to drive the taller kid into a large tree. The brown-haired boy's face splits in a savage grin as he hears the back of Dax's skull collide with the solid trunk behind him.

The moment of triumph is short lived. Dax is not only much larger than he is but he is also in much better physical shape and Murphy can't possibly hope to overpower him with the sheer power of his own fury. He had tried that tactic with the grounder and still bore the vicious marks of the thorough pummelling he had received as a result. As if reading his thoughts, Dax rams his forehead into the boy's nose, not hard enough to break the bridge but abruptly enough to stun him. The taller teen dexterously flips them over so that Murphy's back is now firmly planted against the tree. Dax's hands slither up to coil around his throat and the pale boy writhes in pure panic as he feels the deathlike grip tighten around his neck, images of a crowd of angry faces swirling around his brain as his vision starts to swim. He hears a ferocious growl and initially assumes that it must be coming from Dax but the man's mouth is clamped tightly shut, his lips pressed in a thin line.

Two things happen at once. First, Murphy squints as a splash of some hot, viscous liquid hits his cheek; second, Dax's vice-like grips loosens around his throat and Murphy takes in a shaky breath, tears welling in his eyes as his burning lungs fill up with oxygen once more. He tentatively pries his eyelids open to find Bellamy standing above him, propping himself up with one hand against the tree trunk, right by Murphy's cheek. The older man's face is weary, his cheeks are covered with dirt and his eyes look slightly haggard as he surveys the boy in front of him through heavy lids. Murphy looks down to find Dax's body splayed over the ground between them, like a broken doll at there feet. The brown-haired boy's eyes drift to Bellamy's other hand and he catches a glimpse of the discarded bullet clutched between his fingers. It's covered in blood and so is Dax's neck.

Murphy sags against the tree, letting his head fall back and hit the trunk with a muffled thud. Bellamy leans over him and presses a damp forehead against the boy's brow, his breathing short and erratic still.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

That's how Clarke finds them. Sweaty brows pressed together as they both lean heavily into the tree for support; the smaller boy with his back flush against the trunk and the curly-haired man leaning over him with one of his hands flat against the bark next to a pale, bruised cheek. Murphy's breath is still wheezing as he tries to force in as much oxygen as physically possible and Bellamy just stares silently, eyes heavily-lidded and unfocused. She tears her eyes away from the surreal display to survey the scene around them. Her anxious gaze quickly darts from Dax's lifeless body at the boys' feet to the discarded rifle on the ground behind them. Finally, she looks at the bloodied bullet in Bellamy's hand and realises what must have happened.

She stands by the hill nervously, unsure whether to intervene or not. Part of her wants to rush over to make sure no one is injured – well, no one else than the indubitably dead man at their feet. Another part fears that startling either one of them with a handgun in her hand and a rifle at their feet might somehow end up with another dead body on the ground. She doesn't really like her chances against the two of them.

After what feels like a tiny slice of forever, Murphy seems to come about. She watches him clench his hands nervously a few times before finally finding the strength to bring them up and press them flat against Bellamy's chest. He doesn't push and Clarke is not sure whether that's because he doesn't have the energy or because he is reluctant to drive the older man off but Bellamy catches the drift. The curly-haired man takes a hesitant step backwards to look at Dax's body and Clarke decides this is as good a time as any to make her presence knowns. She clears her throat softly and strolls over to them. As expected, Murphy's first reflex is to shove Bellamy out of the way and pounce towards the rifle. She hurriedly raises the hand that holds the handgun and presents it side facing them, handle towards the ground, in a sign of peace. Bellamy turns to gawk at her but the barrel of the rifle is still determinedly pointed in her direction and Murphy's eyes are still narrow and focused.

'Drop the gun.' he hisses.

'Murphy, it's me. It's Clarke.'

'I know who you are.' Murphy retorts in a slow, even voice. 'Now _drop_ the gun.'

Bellamy finally seems to catch up with the situation unfolding around him and turns towards the boy to place a hand on his arm but Murphy lets out a sharp warning grunt. The older Blake pulls his hand back slowly but doesn't budge from the spot where he stands, less than a half a meter to the kid's side.

'Dax tried to kill you. Shumway wants you dead.' the brown-haired boy seethes, finger on the trigger. 'You don't know who else is in on it.'

'You aren't serious.' Clarke scoffs. 'You think I'm in on this, whatever _this_ is?'

Bellamy turns back towards her, gesturing for her to hand over the handgun, but her eyes remain stubbornly glued to Murphy's narrowed face. She can hardly see his eyes through a curtain of his wet brown hair but his jaw is tight as he hunches over the rifle and she knows he means business.

'What do you _mean_ , Shumway wants Bellamy dead?' she asks, ignoring Bellamy as the taller man slowly stalks over to her. 'Shumway, _Commander_ Shumway?'

'No, Shumway, king of the lost kingdom of Atlantis, Shumway.' Murphy snorts sarcastically, eyes darting to Bellamy as the freckled Blake gently wraps a hand over Clarke's to pry the gun out of her grip.

She lets go of the firearm, meeting Bellamy's unsettled brown eyes briefly before the man strolls over to Murphy's side once again to show him the handgun. Murphy's gaze never leaves her face and the barrel of the rifle remains firmly aimed into her face.

'Here. She's unarmed.' Bellamy frowns. 'Can you lower the gun now?'

Clarke watches the subsequent staring contest attentively while a tense silence stretches over the scene. After what feels like long minutes of wordless deliberation, Murphy cracks a sly grin and swiftly lowers the rifle before handing it over to the larger man. Bellamy seems as taken aback as she is but he extends a hand to grab the weapon from the boy.

'Sorry, Princess.' Murphy snorts with a mock little curtsy. 'I can't say you've ever given me a good reason to trust you but if the rebel king is happy to put his life between your hands, who am I to voice an opinion?'

With that, the boy wheels around and stalks over to Dax's body, ignoring the dejected look on Bellamy's face. Oblivious to the wordless exchange between the two older delinquents, Murphy crouches down next to the corpse and starts rummaging through the dead man's pockets, probably hell bent on scavenging whatever he can from the other kid before the PC police swoops down from the sky to give him another lecture on healthy human interactions.

 

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They exchange very few words on their way back to the tunnels. As they approach the swamp that surrounds the emergency depot, Bellamy walks up to him, catching up to the slender boy in a couple of powerful strides. Murphy had been walking in the front, absently listening to the low hum of voices as Bellamy and Clarke consorted behind him. He had not been paying much attention to what they were saying and made absolutely no attempt to involve himself in the conversion. Quite frankly, he had just about had it with Clarke's feeble attempts at cordiality. He caught a few words here and there and surmised that the Griffin girl was trying to convince Bellamy to report the circumstances surrounding Dax's demise to Jaha himself. Bellamy remained silent after that while Clarke pressed on with her little monologue.

'I thought I saw you in the clearing.'

'Yeah?' Murphy responds after a while, pondering whether he should tell the other man that he had indeed seen him in the clearing. 'You _were_ pretty out of it.'

He still wasn't exactly clear on what took place after the older Blake visited the depot with Clarke. Bellamy had been completely irrational by the time Murphy had found him in the clearing and the boy wasn't sure whether addressing the older man's behaviour was strictly necessary - or even advisable. The boy himself was not particularly eager to revisit the events that unfolded that afternoon. Murphy was perfectly content to disregard anything that might have transpired between them if that meant being spared the emotional shit-storm that would ineluctably follow any admission of guilt on Bellamy's part.

'You said you would explain.' Murphy cuts in, to take Bellamy's mind off the topic. 'When we left. You said you needed me to follow and that you would explain.'

The older man gives him a sharp look, pursing his lips as he contemplates his next move. Murphy knows Bellamy has been keeping something from him and he has the sinking suspicion it won't turn out to be a belated surprise birthday party.

'It's nothing.' Bellamy lies, forcing a tight little smile. 'Let's grab the guns and get back to camp so we can catch some sleep.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear jaha is definitely taking another bullet before I'm done with him. Or maybe a knife to the face. Or maybe someone will end up beating him with his own staff in the desert. But something nasty's definitely coming his way.
> 
> As for Bell, well, the road to redemption is paved with awkward hugs and hair washing. Got the next two chapter written and sitting tightly in the proof-reading oven and that will wrap up Part 2 (which ends just after Unity Day... we all know what comes next, but I apologise in advance).
> 
> This chapter was pretty nerve wracking to right but the next chapter is an emotional roller-coaster.
> 
> As always, thanks to all of you following this :D special mention for   
> blueparacosm, 117Neva117 and tentaclehub - I really appreciate all the kind words!


	15. Part 2: It all comes crashing down

# Leather

## Part 2 : A Walking Disaster

 

###  Chapter 11: It all comes crashing down.

 

 

Bellamy climbs back into the top level of the Dropship with a large canteen of water strapped to his hip. Monty had devised a clever little contraption that allowed them to carry plates and bowls up the ladders of the Dropship. Or rather, the boy had just attached a bucket to a rope that dangled down through the trap form a makeshift pulley system that was fastened onto the roof. Bellamy proceeds to hoist the bucket up using the rope and retrieves two bowls of porridge swimming in what he can only assume is some sort of fish stew. The elder Blake tiptoes over to the back of the large room, careful not to cling the bowls together as he approaches Murphy's sleeping spot. Bellamy pauses for a few seconds to study the boy in his slumber. Curled up tightly onto his side with his back pressed again the wall behind him, Murphy looks every bit the way he does when he's awake; tense, irritated, restless. His plump lower lip keeps quivering and, even from where he his, Bellamy can see the boy's eyes moving rapidly under sunken eyelids. The kid's fingers are clutched tightly into his bedding, hands contracting nervously with every little noise that reaches them from the lower levels. Murphy has been lost to the world for an entire night and the best part of the afternoon prior to that. Bellamy is starting to question whether the boy has any intention of waking up at all before this decade comes to an end.

They had made it back to camp with the guns mid-morning the previous day and spent a couple of hours organising more patrols and distributing the weapons amongst the militia. Murphy had disappeared shortly after that and Bellamy had taken the opportunity to slip into the radio shack with Clarke. They had reported Dax's treachery to Jaha and Clarke had taken the audacious initiative to use her newly acquired knowledge on the identity of the man who had commissioned the attempt on the chancellor's life to negotiate Bellamy's pardon. The older Blake felt no loyalty towards the commander, particularly now that he knew the man had orchestrated the attempt on his own life, so he gladly gave Shumway's name away. Jaha had begrudgingly absolved him of his crime and whatever was left of Bellamy's desire for exile had dissolved.

The older Blake had eagerly retreated to the top deck of the fallen aircraft after that. The brown-haired boy was already sleeping soundly, albeit fitfully, by the time Bellamy made it up to the Dropship penthouse, as Murphy liked to call it. The older man had fished a blanket out of his side pack and draped it over the boy's shivering frame before retreating to the bed of old jackets and parachute off cuts he had made for himself a few feet away from where Murphy had elected to sleep. He had woken up a few times that afternoon, to the sound of soft whimpers coming from the cocoon of blankets that the boy had coiled himself into. He thought about shaking the kid to interrupt whatever unpleasant dreams he was having but decided fitful sleep was better than no sleep at all, especially after a week in the life of John Murphy.

Bellamy had offered to come relieve Miller of his duties when the teen's watch ended so he slipped out of the Dropship a good few hours before the crack of dawn to take the next patrol. The watch was uneventful, save for a few savoury jokes from Derek who was taking a double shift so Murphy could sleep.

'I'll do it! I don't mind.' the kid had offered earnestly. 'I'm pumped! I don't need to sleep!'

A very exasperated Miller proceeded to explained that Monty had found a tea tree by the edge of camp and that his tent-mate had been chewing on the leaves all afternoon. Apparently, Derek hadn't stopped bouncing the whole time they had been on watch and Miller seemed quite relieved when the kid offered to stand another watch instead of following him back to their tent. Bellamy knows Nathan's irritation won't last. Derek is the cadet of the militia - a whole two years younger than even Murphy and Monroe - so they have all become quite protective of the boy. Bellamy himself would be lying if he said that he hasn't gotten quite fond of their ragged band of misfits.

A little smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he lowers himself onto his bed and sets the two bowls aside on the crate they have been using as a bedside table. He is sure the stew will still be vaguely palatable when it's cold so he might as well catch this opportunity to get a little more rest before he gets roped in to deal with the next crisis.

 

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Murphy awakens to the pungent smell of fish stew tickling his nostrils. He forces his eyes open and winces when he realises that the sun is already high in the sky above the Dropship, its harsh light filtering into the room from the window above. He must have been asleep for a while because the sun had still been a few hours from setting when he dozed off. He pushes the blankets aside and swings both legs out of his cocoon to heave himself into a sitting position. A few feet from the tight bundle of jackets his head had been resting onto, he catches a glimpse of a messy head of black curls. Bellamy is laying on his own bed, flat on his back, and Murphy lets his eyes linger a while longer, finding peace in the gentle rise and fall of the man's chest. Soft black curls are pooling on the backpack that serves as a pillow and the man's tan, freckled face looks oddly tranquil in the cold morning light washing down from above. Murphy's gaze ineluctably drifts down that handsome face, drawn the man's plump lips like a moth to a flame.

Bellamy stirs languidly under his scrutiny, eyelids fluttering softly and stout neck craning back into his pillow. Murphy jumps, one leg kicking out in nervous reaction to the possibility of being caught red handed staring at the rebel prince in his sleep. A colourful string of obscenities spills from his lips when bare toes crash against the rough metal bolt that sticks out from the floor with a sinister crack.

'Murph?' Bellamy snaps in a hoarse voice, haggard eyes darting across the room wildly as he sits up in one quick motion. 'You alright?'

'I'm okay, I'm fine.' Murphy groans, wriggling his toes to make sure he hasn't broken anything. 'Go back to sleep, Bell.'

Ignoring him, the older man pushes to his feet with a groan and stalks over to a crate in the corner of the room. He retrieves two bowls and strolls back to where Murphy is still hunching over his throbbing foot. The older man lowers himself onto the bed beside the boy and passes him one of the dishes. Murphy gives him a grateful little grunt and scrunches his nose as he surveys the congealed blob of stew inside his bowl. After a few minutes of eating in silence, Murphy feels the older man's shoulder pressing into his gently to get his attention.

'Miller looked at the wash-up schedule. We're up next, with Harper and Monroe.' Bellamy informs him casually.

They had laid out the hygiene schedule so that everyone in the militia got half an hour to swim in the lagoon ever third day. Every group in camp had worked out their own routine but Bellamy had insisted on four-man groups so that two people could wash-up while another two stood watch by the trail. Murphy had been impressed with how easily Harper and Monroe had adapted to the routine. The boy had anticipated a few clashes when Bellamy announced his decision to include the girls in the militia schedule. In retrospect, he realises his reservations had been unfounded; these two were plenty ballsy enough to fend for themselves and had made that abundantly clear when Jones sneaked up on them on the pair's first visit to the lagoon. The kid had crawled back into camp with his hood up that evening. Murphy only found out why hours later, by the camp fire, when a guffawing Derek recounted the tale to an equally amused band of teenagers. The red haired boy described, in colourful details, how Harper had managed to get the intruder in a head-lock and held him in place long enough for Monroe to shave his eyebrows with her knife.

'What's so funny?' Bellamy asks and Murphy realises he is grinning down into his bowl like an idiot.

'Just thinking about Jones' eyebrows.' he responds, setting the empty bowl aside to put his socks on.

Bellamy lets out a soft laugh and drops his own dish on top of Murphy's on the floor. The older man's eyes follow the boy's pale hands as he hunches over to lace his boots and a comfortable silence stretches between them. Murphy finishes assembling his gear, mentally cringing as he catches a glimpse of his own gritty fingernails, and lifts his arm to run a hand through matted brown locks.

'Let's get a move on.' Murphy snorts as stalks over to the ladder. 'Harper always takes forever with her hair.'

 

\------------------------------------------

 

Bellamy tries not to let his eyes linger.

The boy is facing away from him, sitting on a rock by the bank of the freshwater lagoon, a couple of meters from where Bellamy is standing. Taut muscles roll under the milky white skin of his back as he stoops over to wring his soaked up t-shirt and Bellamy silently berates himself for staring so shamelessly. It is not feline grace that enthrals him so; Murphy offers none of that and if that was what Bellamy was after, he would be back at camp, batting dark eyelashes at one of the long-legged creatures that always seemed to hover around his tent in the first few days after the landing. What secures Bellamy's undivided attention is the restless energy that animates the boy, the stone cold determination in that lithe body as Murphy dunks the fabric back into the clear water below, rubbing it together vigorously to cleanse the soft blue cotton. Bellamy would not say that Murphy lacks grace, per say, just that the boy is too pragmatic to indulge in languid motions and flourishes. He moves like a soldier, uncouth and practical, not a superfluous movement, only what is strictly necessary. And _that_ is what Bellamy is after. Messy locks of brown hair frame the boy's neck, standing in sharp contrast with the creamy white skin. The flesh of his back is surprisingly unscathed compared to the rest of his body; a few bruises here, a few scratches there.

Bellamy shakes himself firmly and looks back to his own shirt draped over a boulder in the sun. Their clothing might not be completely dry by the time they left but they could always hang them up again when they got back to the Dropship. The older man cautiously makes his way deeper into the lagoon, gasping under his breath as the cool water reaches the small of his back. Murphy gives him a sharp look over his shoulder but relaxes when he realises that the gasp was one of contentment rather than surprise or pain. Bellamy crouches in the water to immerse his chest, using his hands to rub sweat, mud and weariness from his skin. When he's relatively satisfied with himself, he takes a deep breath and ducks under the water to soak his hair.

'My kingdom for a bar of soap.' Murphy groans when the older man emerges.

Bellamy's eyes fly wide open when he realises the boy is now edging deeper into the clear water to join him, clad in nothing but the Skybox standard issue grey boxers. Murphy shivers from the cold, close enough now that Bellamy can see the goosebumps on that pale skin. When the water reaches his waist, the boy actually lets out a little groan and scrunches his nose at the slimy mud and blood that washes off his arms. He scoops up some cold water into his hands and brings it up to soak his face, eyes tightly shut as he starts rubbing at the dirt on his cheeks and brow. Bellamy takes the opportunity to survey the state of the boy's abdomen. The older man could almost map the kid's bruises from memory, by colour and shape. The oldest ones are starting to fade into yellow, some of them leaning towards a soft olive green. Those are the ones from the lynching; they spread over his flanks and his stomach. The freshest ones are the remnants from the beating he took in the cave, still puffed up and angry, purple and black, crimson and blue. These ones are mostly across his cheeks and on his upper chest. These are the most recent, the ones that look the most painful, but they are not the ones Bellamy yearns to flinches away from. He is accountable for all of them, to one degree or another, but the ones on Murphy's neck are of Bellamy's own doing. The ones his eyes dread most are the ones from the hanging. They coil around that soft milky throat, peppered with scabs and half-healed wounds, gashes and scratches where the nylon had cut into the skin while he was dangling from that tree, kicking his feet in the air, gagging on his own tongue while the frenzied crowd cheered around them.

'Could definitely use a bottle of shampoo and a hair brush.' Murphy groans again, tugging on his hair and squinting, probably contemplating whether he should even bother washing it. 'Or a buzz cut.'

'Please don't. You'd look like a snake.' Bellamy scoffs, jokingly pulling the boy's hair back and pressing it tight against his skull to illustrate his point. 'Maybe a turtle.'

'Hey, turtles are cute.' Murphy grins, batting his hands away. 'Besides, we can't all be catnip for the ladies.'

Bellamy lets out another hearty laugh while the kid finally musters the courage to duck down below the water. He looks every bit like a wet cat when his head breaks the surface, hair plastered over his brow, covering half his face and a look of complete and utter disgruntlement contorting his features.

'Water temperature not to your liking?' Bellamy grins, lowering himself to join the kid down in the water. 'Turn around, your hair needs a serious scrub.'

Murphy rolls his eyes dramatically but he complies, spinning around in the water to present his back to Bellamy. The older man sucks in a deep breath and brings both of his hands up to cup the sides of the boy's face from behind. When he is fairly confident that the kid will not resist, Bellamy gently tilts Murphy's head back and guides it under the water to soak his scalp. He presses his palms flat over the wet brown locks and pulls back to squeeze the bulk of the grit out, cringing when the water between them clouds up from the mud and blood that oozes out from the boy's hair. When the water eventually clears up, Bellamy start combing his fingers through the matted locks, rubbing them together to get the last of the grime out. Murphy purrs contentedly as Bellamy starts using his fingertips to massage his scalp and the older man allows himself a small smile when he notices the boy has closed his eyes.

Bellamy has washed Octavia's hair before but this is completely different. As much as he loves his sister, washing her hair when they were kids was nothing short of a chore. She never stopped squirming and whining, always complaining about him pulling her hair or getting soap in her eyes.

This... this is pleasant. Murphy is quiet and pliant, two words Bellamy never thought he would use to qualify the cynical boy, not in a million years. The young man leans into his touch, never piping a word as the elder Blake gently rakes his fingernails against his scalp.

This is peaceful and Bellamy lets out a contented sigh as he continues rubbing the boy's head gently, fingertips occasionally grazing against the younger man's ears and cheeks as he pulls the brown-locks to keep them out of his face. Yet, as much as he longs for the moment to drag on, the elder Blake knows the girls will come checking in on them if they take too long. He looks down into the brown-haired boy's open face and lets a serene little smile toy with the corner of his lips. Murphy relaxed so much under his touch that his body has gone completely limp. The boy's head suddenly falls into Bellamy's chest, startling both of them.

'All done.' Bellamy grunts in a husky voice, giving the kid's shoulder a hard pat.

Murphy paddles around to face him and runs a hand through his hair before pursing his lips in an impressed little moue.

'Not bad.' the boy smirks lazily. 'If ruling the world doesn't work out, you should consider opening a salon, Bell.'

 

\----------------------------------------------

 

Murphy grimaces when he presses a palm against his shirt and realises it hasn't completely dried off yet. He turns to Bellamy and the older man just gives him a little shrug as he pulls his own damp shirt over his head. Murphy sighs but mimics him, cringing at the sticky sensation of wet fabric clinging to his skin. Fortunately enough, his socks are mostly dry so he happily pulls them up over his feet before slipping on his boots. The boy props himself against a large boulder and tilts his head to the side to wring his hair again then absently tugs at the long locks that hang over his brow to tickle his cheekbones.

'You want me to cut it for you?' Bellamy offers, pulling his knife from the belt of his cargo pants and gesturing towards the hair falling into the boy's eyes.

Murphy feels himself tensing up at the sight of the knife before he even has time to process what Bellamy is offering to do. The older man looks up and a deep frown creeps onto that freckled face when he catches the boy's apprehensive gaze. Murphy swallows against the hard lump in his throat, trembling at the very thought of testing the fragile semblance of trust the two of them had managed to restore.

'You standing behind me with a sharp knife? Let me think...' Murphy starts, wiping his nose into his wrist to hide his discomfort. 'Yeah, I don't think so, Bell.'

'Come on, what's that supposed to mean, now?'

Bellamy's scowl deepens and he pushes off onto his feet to come stand in front of the boy, hands on his hips, fingers still wrapped around the knife handle. Murphy knows his apprehension is unfounded, most probably anyway. He knows if Bellamy wanted him dead he wouldn't have spent the better part of his wash-up time giving him a head rub. Unless this was some kind of sick routine, some form of premature apology.

_Hey, I'm sorry I have to slice your throat, buddy. But here's a nice hair wash and a scalp massage to make you feel better._

Murphy grimaces, perfectly aware of how irrational this sounds, but he can't bring himself to meet the older man's eyes. So he looks down at his hands, at the scabby fingers and bruised knuckles, at the untrimmed fingernails and scarped up wrists. He wants to trust the older man, he wants to let his guard down but the wounds are too fresh, Mbege's body is not even in the ground yet. He subconsciously brings a hand up to touch the raw flesh across his neck and freezes when he realises what he's doing. Bellamy's voice is low and hoarse when he speaks again and the boy recoils from it, shying away from the accusation in the older man's voice.

'This is fucking unhealthy, Murph. You need to let _go_. We need to move on.'

'You think I'm not _trying_?' Murphy snarls, indignation bubbling in his chest. 'I _try,_ Bell. _All_ I fucking do is try! I try to forget but everytime I look at you, I don't see the guy that took me under his wing. I don't see the guy that sat with me by the fire, talking shit until morning.'

He marks a pause, trying to regain his composure by taking a deep breath and failing miserably. His fingers coil into the fabric of his cargo pants as he continues in a shaky voice.

'I see the guy who couldn't even speak a word to defend me when I needed him most. The guy who let a crowd of rabid goat-fucking shit-eaters hang me for a crime I didn't commit. The guy who kicked the fucking crate from under my feet while I _begged_ him for help.'

Bellamy lets out a frustrated grunt, shoving the knife back through his belt and crossing his arms tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched so tightly Murphy thinks he might just crack a tooth. The older man looks at a him a while longer and opens his mouth as if to say something but no words come out and he just grunts again.

'I'm sorry, Bell. Did you have any illusion I'd be able to trust you again after what happened?' Murphy scoffs, throwing his hands up in defeat. 'Sorry to burst you bubble, man. It's gonna take a little bit more than a hair-wash.'

'So stop doing that.' Bellamy growls, stomping over to him and stopping just short of ramming into him. 'Stop smiling at me like nothing ever happened. Stop cracking jokes like everything just rolls off your back. Stop telling me you're _fine_.'

Murphy recoils from the man's raucous voice, wishing he could just shrink away from that baleful glare. He tears his gaze from Bellamy's face, partly because he doesn't want the other man to see the distress in his eyes, partly because he cannot _stand_ the blend of disappointment and frustration that complements the man's angry scowl.

'Tell me what to _do_.' Bellamy groans softly, grabbing the boy by the shoulders and squeezing gently to coax a response out of him.

Murphy shrugs him off and the larger man grabs two fistfuls of his own curly black hair with a frustrated growl. The brown-haired boy squeezes his lids shut to quell the angry tears welling in his eyes. He wants to shout, he want to scream his lungs out for the whole world to hear. He wants to lash out and beat Bellamy fucking Blake into a bloody pulp. He wants the older man to writhes and beg where everyone can hear. He wants Bellamy to feel as humiliated and betrayed as _he_ felt.

But calloused hands are suddenly cupping his wet cheeks and a pair of moist, warm lips presses against his own. Murphy's eyes fly open to find Bellamy's face flush against his, so close he could count ever freckle if he tried. Their noses bump awkwardly as the older man tilts his head sideways to lean into the kiss and Murphy hears himself gasping into Bellamy's open mouth. The elder Blake's fingertips dig into the back of his neck and Murphy feels a hot, wet tongue pushing between his lips to seek out his own. A sharp jolt of excitement shoots down the length of his stomach then straight into his groin as their teeth clash together and Murphy's brain suddenly catches up with his loins.

 

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Murphy pushes him off roughly and takes a few staggering steps backwards before bringing a hand up to his face, nervously rubbing his nose against the back of his wrist. Bellamy stands on the spot, completely taken aback and he's not sure what shocks him most; his own presumption or the boy's violent reaction to that awkward excuse for a kiss. The elder Blake brings a hand up to touch his own lips, questioning whether the events of the past few minutes actually took place outside of his wild imagination.

'You guys almost done down there?' Monroe's disembodied voice reaches them from the trail and Bellamy watches the blood drain from Murphy's flushed cheeks in the blink of an eye.

The boy won't meet his eyes but the tight set of his shoulders as Murphy presses his lips into a thin line is all the response Bellamy needs. Rejection is not something Bellamy Blake faces often but he knows the bitter taste well enough to recognise it when it comes his way. Wiping wet curls of black hair out of his brow to distract himself, the older man clears his throat and raises his voice to appease the girls before they scurry over to them.

'We're coming!' he bellows, taking some comfort in the way Murphy flinches away from the booming sound.

Bellamy wants to shout, he wants to ram into the boy and pin him to the ground, he wants to scream at him until his throat is raw, until his lungs are burning. He wants Murphy to tell him what he needs. He wants the boy to tell him what to do so they can both start healing. He almost wishes Murphy would always be as pliant under his touch as he was in the water, mere minutes earlier, but the fiery wilderness is what he craves, the unyielding arrogance in those stormy grey eyes. He can take the _anger_ , he can take Murphy lashing out at him, tearing into his skin and soul.

But he cannot stand the mock deference, he cannot handle the forced civility and passive aggressive little barbs, casually thrown into the mix when the older man least expects it.

He can take the guilt, he can take the violence and he can take the accusations. Bellamy Blake can take anything this world has to throw at him but he cannot bear the thought this one boy never being able to trust him again.

 

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Even in his inebriated state, Miller feels the tension oozing from the two of them right away. He watches Bellamy and Murphy shuffle back into camp behind the girls and he just knows something is broken. He can almost see the sparks of electric tension between the two but he only realises how bad things are when Murphy strolls over to where Nathan is sitting by the fire with Derek and drops drown onto a stump next to them, leaving Bellamy staring after him silently. Miller feels a pang of sympathy for the older man. He has been on the receiving end of Murphy's cold shoulder and he knows just how stubbornly resentful the boy can be.

'Hey, Murrrrrphey!' Derek cheers, offering his own cup of moonshine to the brown-haired boy. 'Have a drink, it's a beautiful evening to get sloshed!'

Miller shakes his head sourly, not sure how to tell Derek to back off before Murphy wrings his little neck. The sullen boy's intense aversion for alcohol was not exactly common knowledge, Miller himself only knew because Mbege had let it slip that one time when Miller attempted to smuggle some booze into the Box. They had all heard the tale of Murphy's mother's demise during Earth Skills class but few people knew just how strongly her son felt about substance abuse. Murphy wasn't exactly the sharing type.

'No, thanks.'

'Derek.' Miller growls, giving the cadet a warning look when he tries to push the cup into Murphy's hand anyway.

'Ahhh, alright,' the kids slurs, wrapping his arms around Murphy's shoulders and giving him a quick squeeze. 'Have a hug instead.'

Nathan sighs deeply, squirming half-heartedly when Derek turns to wrap him into a bear hug so he doesn't feel left out. But all he feels, really, is the redhead's warm breath against his ear and the wet splash of moonshine that spills from the kids cup right into the back of his shirt. The shaggy-haired boy snatches both of their cups and stumbles back to the Dropship to get a refill, leaving Miller sitting quietly by the fire with Murphy.

'Rough day?' Nathan tries, forcing a tight little smile.

'Can we _not_ do small talk?' Murphy groans, massaging his eyelids with the tip of his fingers.

Miller shakes his head and leans back against the tree behind him with his hands crossed behind his head. 'Suit yourself, asshole.'

'How's you boyfriend these days, Nate?' Murphy gives him a grim little smile. 'You know, the Farming Station boy you cheated on while you were in lockup. What's his name? Ryan? No, wait, Barney.'

Nathan's heart sinks in his chest when he looks up to meet the boy's cold calculating stare.

'Bryan.' the taller boy finally responds.

'Yeah, Bryan.' Murphy scoffs. 'So what's the deal? Did you think I kind of looked like him?'

'No...' Miller groans. 'Hell, no.'

'So, he's a pretty boy, eh?' Murphy smiles that tight, hollow smile. 'Does he know you were going around putting your dick in other people's mouths in the Skybox while he was busting his balls on Farming Station?'

Miller's shakes his head sadly. He knows Murphy is just deflecting, lashing out because that's the only thing he knows, because that's the only way he's learnt to cope with the pain. But Nathan has neither the strength nor the patience to sit through another chew out session tonight so he sits up and pushes to his feet, flipping the brown-haired boy the finger as he stalks away, not knowing that's the last he would see off Murphy for a long time.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the delay - been having a hard time with concentration again. Hoping this isn't too blend :D  
> Thanks for all the support. I wrote and rewrote this, trying to get it just right and in the end I'm still not satisfied with it but here it is. 
> 
> Another short chapter after that and we'll be moving over to Part 3, which starts a bit before 'I am become death'.


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